Metamorphome

Chapter Five: Writing For, But Not About, Christmas

Morrigan sucked at her quill thoughtfully. She'd been thinking about writing something for Christmas for a very long time--six days, in fact--but she couldn't figure out about what precisely she wanted to write. She was rather fond of the idea that she should write a fairy tale for Hermione, but she only knew one, and that one was strange, incomprehensible. If Morrigan were to give a gift to the Mudblood, it would be something that Morrigan could understand and treasure for herself. That's what gifts were, Morrigan reasoned. If you give away something you don't care about, it's really just junking the object. So, in order to make this a good Christmas, she needed to give something from her being. The problem was, she didn't like the idea of giving something so personal to a Mudblood. Finally, another story (aside from the fairy tale) flitted into her mind, as if sent there by an omnipotent being. She put her quill to the paper and began to write.

She did not stop writing for an hour, and finally she read through the paper twice, checking for mistakes. Finding none, she tied the parchment into a scroll using the black ribbon with which she tied her hair. Malfoy's story took longer to conceive, though Morrigan didn't mind sharing as much with him. Instead of a tale, she wished to share a memory with him, but she couldn't think of anything appropriate for a gift. Suddenly she thought of a memory that was completely appropriate for a fellow Death Eater--active or not. Perhaps it wasn't a memory, but it was true, and she thought of it every day.

This one took a little longer to write, because she had to redraft and perfect the details. Finally pleased with her work, she tied it with a piece of twine. The two scrolls sat side by side on the table, their edges slightly bent by Morrigan's fervor as she leaned over the works and moved her left elbow up and down the pages. It almost looked better this way, Morrigan decided. She looked at the soot in the fireplace and decided to dip the edges in, giving the scrolls an archaic look.

Finally she was completely satisfied with what she saw. With a content nod of the head, she curled back into her corner and fell promptly asleep.

* * *

The next morning dawned, although Morrigan didn't know it until the Mudblood's exuberant shrieks woke her. Morrigan rolled over towards the wall and curled even farther into herself, but Granger rolled Morrigan back towards her. "Get up! It's Christmas!"

Morrigan sat up, rubbing her head and scowling fiercely "What time is it?" she grumbled.

Hermione looked at her watch. "Seven-thirty."

"Seven-thirty!" Morrigan echoed angrily. "I'm going back to sleep."

"You're not supposed to sleep on Christmas," Hermione told her smartly, and Morrigan stood.

"Fine, but I need to shower."

"First you'll open your gifts," Hermione told her, beaming.

"Gifts?" Morrigan said. "As in more than one?"

"Of course!" Hermione laughed. "You said it would be the best ever, and I decided to be a bit...elaborate."

Morrigan looked at her two puny scrolls. Something was edging into her thoughts and memories. Was it anger? No, it felt worse. Morrigan couldn't identify it, because the feeling was guilt and it had been quite a while since she had felt it.

She grabbed her two meager stories as she walked out, then headed up the stairs.

Hermione had done even more decorating, and the house was rather blinding with the huge array of candles perched on every flat surface. Draco was watching the girls from the doorway, grimacing at the rich abundance of the decor. "She woke you up?" he growled at Morrigan, who nodded irately. Draco rolled his eyes and then shuffled back into the sitting room.

Hermione beamed at Morrigan and motioned for her to follow Draco. Entering the room, Morrigan once again took in the tree. Draco was drinking coffee like it was going out of style, while Hermione went around the tree, picking the parcels out that were Morrigan's (there really was quite a few) and then placing them in front of her. Morrigan stared at them, unsure of what to do. Hermione nodded at her. "Open them!" she demanded, and Morrigan looked at Draco.

"Go on," he told her gruffly.

Morrigan gingerly untied the string and ripped the parcel paper, trying not to destroy it completely.

"You can rip it to shreds," Draco told her amusedly. "It's just paper."

Morrigan took this cue to yank the paper completely off the box, and then opened it. Inside laid a lovely cloak, red and bright. Morrigan's eyes momentarily lit up, pleased with the color. "Thank you!" she exclaimed, before she knew what she was saying. She clapped a hand over her mouth, ashamed that she'd just thanked a Mudblood. Hermione, on the other hand, looked delighted. "You're welcome!" she exclaimed excitedly. "Open the other ones!"

Morrigan opened the next box, a larger one and found inside four new sets of robes, in four colors--green, blue, black, and red. Another box held a blue cloak, and another had a new pair of boots. They were rather tall, three inches above her ankle, and black. Though not precisely stylish (which Morrigan fancied herself to be), they were comfortable and practical. One box held a great deal of socks, each one styling different designs from dragons to Christmas trees. The last, finally, was a book from Draco.

It read, The Ancient Tales: A Script of European Myth and History. Draco watched her face as she opened it, and this time it truly showed pleasure, uncontained and apparent. "This is amazing," she whispered.

"Your abilities as a story-teller did not fail to catch my attention," he explained. "It seemed an appropriate gift."

Morrigan blushed. "Thank you," she whispered, then she turned to Hermione. "Thank you, also."

Hermione, too, colored, her expression unreadable. "I have something for you, too," Morrigan said, her voice low. "It's not much, but it's...appropriate."

She handed the scrolls to each of them. Hermione handed it back to her, saying, "I want you to read it."

Morrigan was taken aback. "Read it? Aloud?"

"Yes," Hermione affirmed. "Draco says you're a good story-teller, and I want to hear you tell a story."

Morrigan threw a deeply affronted look at Draco, who shrugged, then placed his mug of coffee down and sat forward to listen.

Morrigan took a deep breath, and then began:

"Many years ago, Ulster was a great power of Ireland. The first king, Fergus Mac Roth, was deposed by Conchobhar Mac Nessa, whose power grew strong, as he was the people's choice. His advisor, a druid named Cathbad, also grew in power. Cathbad's daughter, Dechtire, came of age and was immediately married off to Mac Roth's brother, Sualtum Mac Roth. On their wedding day, Dechtire looked so beautiful that she attracted the attention of the sun god Lugh, who sent a fly to Dechtire, causing the bride to swallow it and become possessed of the idea that she should travel to the Otherworld with fifty other women. Instantly she turned to a beautiful bird, along with the other maidens, and traveled to Lugh, where he awaited. For three years, Lugh kept her there for his own pleasure, although Cathbad told Dechtire's husband that she was visiting relatives, as her ancestors had been immortals.

"Finally, three years later, Dechtire and her fifty maidens returned as radiant, colorful birds, while Dechtire was with child. Dechtire bore her son, Setanta, and Sualtum took him as his own, for he was dearly gladdened that Dechtire had returned. Setanta grew older, and he soon proved himself the martial superior of his peers. He proved himself strong and brave when he killed the hound of Culan when the beast attacked him. Setanta offered his service as a hound until Culan could replace his dog, but Culan refused the offer. From then on, however, Setanta was known as Cu Chulainn. He proved in a battle against giants that he had the power of gods in his fists, although it took three vats of water to cool the battle fury upon the conclusion of the battle.

"But despite the proof of his prowess, Cu Chulainn was not peerless to other champions spread across the rest of the world. Soon he left to find the Scottish champion Domhall. Domhall, however, told Cu Chulainn that none could train him better than the warrior-princess Scathach. Cu Chulainn was forced to travel many miles and brave many dangers in order to find her, but finally he met her in the Land of Shadows. The Warrior-Princess Scathach taught Setanta his famous battle leap and many other skills, while Uathach, her daughter, taught him other things of the more private nature.

"There came a day that Cu Chulainn met and challenged Aoifa, Scathach's sister. Scathach tried to prevent Cu Chulainn from challenging Aoifa but he resisted, to fight a battle of skill, power, and wits. Cu Chulainn won by the skin of his teeth, but took Aoifa as a lover, conceiving a child before he left, leaving only a gold ring for Aoifa before he went home to Ulster.

"Aoifa gave birth to a handsome boy named Conlai, who showed amazing battle prowess, although this was unsurprising, given who his parents were. At nine, Conlai finally wished to go forward in the world and greet his father. Aoifa put the gold ring upon his finger and warned Conlai not to reveal his identity to any, thus sealing Conlai's fate.

"The boy found mighty Ulster with little difficulty, and at the city gates he called up that he could fight and win against any champion the city chose to set against him. Many rose to meet the challenge, and a great crowd grew at the walls to watch the nine-year-old defeat the Ulstermen. One by one the Ulstermen rose to the sword and were cut down by Conlai's blade. From the walls, Cu Chulainn watched, impressed by this boy. Finally he decided to challenge Conlai, liking his spirit, although his wife, Emer, cautioned him and pleaded that he wouldn't challenge the boy. Cu Chulainn shrugged her worries away and descended to challenge his son.

"At the bottom, the boy met Cu Chulainn in battle with such ferocity that the champion became even more impressed by his zeal, despite the fact that Cu Chulainn was barely trying. Suddenly, in a burst of overconfidence, Conlai cut a lock of gold hair from Cu Chulainn's head and angered the champion. With little effort at all, Cu Chulainn plunged his sword into Conlai's girth, mortally wounding the boy. In the last moment of Conlai's life, Cu Chulainn saw the ring upon Conlai's finger and cried out in anguish--he had killed his son.

"The Ulsterman picked the ravaged body of his son from the dirt and carried him into the city, where he was given the proper burial deserved of a warrior and the son of a famous champion. Although Cu Chulainn had never known the boy, his grief and sorrow overwhelmed him as he said farewell to his only son forever, unknowing that he, too, would soon share a similar fate, but that is a story for another time and another place..."

Morrigan trailed off and looked up. Hermione looked stricken, while Draco was lost in his thoughts. "Well?" Morrigan asked, her voice unsteady and rather hoarse.

"That was beautiful," Hermione breathed. "Thank you."

"I--you're welcome," Morrigan stuttered, unsure of how to respond, then turned to Draco. "I would prefer that you read yours later, Malfoy, in your own company."

Draco snapped out of his thoughts and said, "What--? Oh! Yes, of course."

Looking at him strangely, Morrigan said, "May I shower?"

Hermione smiled at her, then led her to the bathroom, summoning her toiletries once more. "Why don't you wear your new robes?" she asked.

"Of course," Morrigan said, hurrying to get them. She decided upon the red ones and then went into the bathroom, locking the door quietly.

Hermione left the door when she was sure that the water was running and Morrigan was bathing. She began picking up paper, and noticed Draco sitting in the chair, his eyes wide and staring, lost in his thoughts.

"What are you thinking about, Draco?" she asked.

"I was thinking of how remarkable it is that she knew that story," he replied immediately. "And amused that of all the Celtic myths she knew, it would be one that had nothing to do with love--er, romantic love, that is."

"Where do you suppose she heard it?" Hermione asked.

"I'm wondering if she'd ever heard it at all," Draco told her with a frown. "The only person that could have possibly told her such a story was her mother, and she was out of her life by the time Flaherty was five. There's no way she could have retained such a story."

"Hm, I think that is where she heard it."

"What makes you say that?" Draco inquired curiously.

"Well, am I correct in assuming she had an unhappy childhood?" she posed.

"Very correct," Draco confirmed.

"And that her mother was not the source of this unhappiness?"

"Again, correct," Draco sighed.

"Perhaps her mother told her stories to help her sleep."

"Assuming her mother knew such tales."

"Her mother most assuredly knew those tales," Hermione asserted confidently. "Morrigan is not a common name. Morgan is common, but I'm sure you know only one Morrigan--that one," she said, pointing towards the bathroom, "being the only one. Morrigan was the Celtic goddess of battle, whose love Cu Chulainn refused, resulting, ultimately in his death. Morrigan helped destroy Cu Chulainn, et cetera, as deities always have the last word. Anyway, I am willing to bet that her mother was quite informed in Celtic mythology and history. She probably regaled Morrigan with many different stories, which Morrigan probably memorized, comprehending or not. In time, in accordance with whatever happened to Morrigan to make her so bitter, she probably forgot the stories of love and lust in favor of tragedies and battles."

Draco nodded thoughtfully. "And do you think that if she read that mythology, she will remember some of those tales?"

"Undoubtedly."

"And when she remembers these tales that her mother told her?"

Hermione's face lit up. "The memories will make her remember her emotions!" She did a quick dance, sending the paper in her hands flying. With a bashful smile, she picked them up once more.

In the bathroom, Morrigan stood in front of the mirror, gazing at her reflection. Her black hair had grown noticeably longer, and her bangs were officially becoming irksome. The circles beneath her eyes, once dark and imposing, had mostly evaporated, making her look bright and alarmingly...normal. Banishing these thoughts, Morrigan braided her hair into two plaits, tying them with two elastics found in the cabinet. She then dressed into the red robes, instantly pleased with them.

The fabric was luxurious and comfortable, and as opposed to the baggy style that Morrigan usually chose to wear, these were not as bulky, and with these, she actually had a waist--although it was more of a line distinguished by the beginning of her back end. The sleeves didn't flow, and Morrigan could see the practicality in this, as she was always miffed when she got the baggy ones in her potions. Morrigan was quite pleased, and she walked out into the living room with a half smile on her face. Draco looked up at her and looked away quickly. Hermione smiled brightly and said, "You look wonderful!"

"Thanks," Morrigan mumbled, looking at her feet. Hermione left and came back with a tray of mugs.

"Your appetizers," she said, handing them each a mug of a steaming, thick substance.

"What is it?" Morrigan asked suspiciously.

"Hot chocolate!" Hermione exclaimed.

Draco took a drink. The moment he tasted it, he began to hack and cough, and as a result, most of the hot chocolate ended up on the rug. "This has cinnamon in it," he said, looking up at Hermione whose eyes had widened slightly and looked rather hurt.

"Yes, I thought you might like it," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I do," he said. "Thanks."

Relieved, Hermione smiled. "Good."

Morrigan sipped at it, finding the warm substance a bit too sweet, but good regardless. It filled her stomach and settled there comfortably. She followed Hermione to the kitchen, where the girl was running around, cooking something in the oven and on the stove that smelled very good. "I...I could help," Morrigan offered. "I know how to cook."

Hermione turned in surprise. "You know how to cook?"

"Yeah. It was my first job at Parselart."

"Oh," Hermione said. "Well, do you know how to cook a ham?"

"Is it like cooking a duck?" Morrigan asked uncertainly.

"Sort of. Just check it every few minutes. I have to begin the cake and scones now, or I'll never get done."

Morrigan was quiet for a while, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed and watching Hermione with a cryptic expression on her face. Eventually she spoke up. "Why are you doing all this?"

"What?" Hermione asked evasively, not looking up from the cake batter.

"This huge ordeal for Christmas. I know you have family, and...well, Malfoy doesn't, but still. Why would you do this for me? I hate you and your Mudblood kin. I have killed your kind before, tortured them as they laid at my feet, as they pulled their own hair out of their heads, screaming until they cough up blood, or rupture arteries. Just because I could. Because I wanted to hurt them." Morrigan's eyes clouded over, her expression dark.

"Because I don't think you know any different," Hermione replied quietly, looking up now to stare Morrigan down. "I could sit here and analyze you all day, even though I don't know anything about your history, and I might never know it. But I do know that someone in your past gave you a reason to hate Muggles, to hate me. I can't erase the hurt they have caused you, nor can I make up for it in any way. But I can teach you. You can learn from me."

"What can I learn from you?" Morrigan sneered. "Even if you can teach me about love and kindness, what is the point? Whether you are good or not, whatever that means, it still does not change the fact that you are, in fact--" Hermione winced as she anticipated the next word "--Muggleborn, and therefore my inferior."

"What is it, in fact, that makes me inferior to you?" Hermione asked her cocking her head to the side. "Hm? Question: are you better than Voldemort?"

"Don't say his name!" Morrigan hissed. "And of course I'm not. He is too powerful to be compared to me, a mere cockroach in his schemes."

"Oh, in that case, would you like me to inform you that, by your own argument, you are in fact his superior, and by saying that you are a 'mere cockroach' to his schemes is contradicting yourself?"

"How do you mean?" Morrigan asked, her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"I mean that your master is a Halfblood, his father a poor, deceived Muggle that left Merope Gaunt for dead when she stopped feeding him the love potion she so ingeniously concocted to keep him helplessly infatuated with her, to keep him from leaving her and her unborn child. Yes, one of the last descendants of Salazar Slytherin, reduced to feeding a mere Muggle a love potion so that he'd think she was good enough."

"You lie!" Morrigan snarled, her fists curled into fists.

"I don't," Hermione said through an uncharacteristic smirk. "No, I know on very reliable terms that your Lord is a deceiving Halfblood, and obviously inferior to you."

"But--but--" sputtered Morrigan, her face stricken.

"Sorry, Morrigan. Your precious leader is a liar, and he does not conserve his deceitful tendencies from even his most loyal followers. I believe you have ill-placed your loyalty."

Draco came to stand in the doorway, watching as Morrigan took this in. She could see in Hermione's face that she wasn't lying. Even more terribly, Morrigan believed her.

"Oh, and his bullshit about power being everything? Wrong, too. You want to know why he couldn't defeat Harry? Love. Voldemort traded love for immortality and marked himself for defeat."

Morrigan was flabbergasted, to put it lightly. She couldn't stand, and she fell in a chair, her eyes widened melodramatically.

"Why would he--?"

"Because, to Voldemort, power is more important than loyalty. Even yours, Morrigan," she added softly, her eyes kind.

Morrigan did the only thing she knew to do, she pressed her forehead to the table and closed her eyes, fiercely wishing that the ground wasn't so close, and praying that it would stay away.

* * *

Draco, Morrigan, and Hermione sat before the fire in the sitting room. They had been silent for the better part of an hour, but suddenly, to Hermione and Draco's surprise, Morrigan broke the silence. "What is it, Granger, that I don't know?"

Hermione looked at Morrigan with an astonished expression. "There's quite a bit, you know."

"Yes, but it seems that if I'm to survive, I need to know a few things."

"Are you actually volunteering to learn about the light side?" Draco asked amusedly.

"Yes," Morrigan snapped. "It doesn't mean I'll fight for your stupid Order. It just means that I want to know. I'm curious, is all."

Hermione curled into her ball, leaning against the couch with a smile. "This has been the best Christmas ever," she observed dreamily.

Draco smiled at her and said, "I'm going to retire. I can trust that neither of you are going to kill each other while I'm gone?"

Both girls nodded solemnly, and Draco stood, his tall frame filling the light and temporarily casting a shadow over the whole room. He passed by both of them and was gone. He went up to his room, yawning gently. After today, a bit of sleep would be much appreciated. He shoved his hands in his robes, preparing to dress immediately after closing the door. His hand touched something soft, and he pulled it out.

It was the scroll Morrigan had given him, which he had forgotten until now. He slowly untied, unrolled, and began to read it.

This is a strange gift to give, I think, but I could not truly judge the inimitability of any gift, seeing as I have such little experience in giving them. I pray you will not reveal the contents of this with a single soul, although I encourage you, reveal them if it is of dire importance to do so. Of course, seeing as I am nothing to the rest of the world, save perhaps the Dark Lord, who alone has expressed any care for me at all, this should be of little relevance.

I do not know why I have chosen to reveal myself to you. It has not been long since I have called you a yellow bastard, among other things, most of them far less pleasant. Long ago, a woman taught me to speak when someone is listening and listen when someone is speaking. It is a ridiculous thing I perhaps remembered from my weak mother, but still, I feel that you are listening and something is telling me to speak. It may be that you care not about what I say, and if this is so, I pray you--read no more, for I do not wish to seem a weak fool, especially to those I consider my enemy. However, I digress.

Do you know, Mr. Malfoy, how it is to feel abandoned? This is a ridiculous question, you may think, on two accounts. The first, I believe, is that you are human, and abandonment is a human term, for most humans have, at one time, been abandoned or felt such a way. The second is that, despite my tragic past, I do not seemed to have ever been truly abandoned, as my mother was there until her death at the end of a wand.

If you thought that, you are wrong. Forgive my bluntness, but never is abandonment more dire than when that <- the person that abandoned you is right beside you, your fate in their hands. As John Miller beat us--my mother and I--not once did she raise a hand. She did not even consider destroying him. I now know that she could have easily done so, could have crushed his life with little effort at all. However, she was weakened by love, weakened by her own fear. She could have stopped this, she could have stopped John Miller's abuse.

She abandoned her child, though, for a mere Muggle. A toy to the wizards! A blemish on the face of the earth! He flayed MY flesh, my beautiful Pureblood flesh. He spilled the blood and broke the veins of a family older than time, a family that can trace its lines to an acolyte of Morgan Le Fay and the Tuatha De Danann. His filthy hands should never have touched me, destroyed me, inspired fear in me. He should have been painfully ripped apart from his innards, as should my mother for her abandonment. She brought me into this world, and she should have taken responsibility for this action, her husband alive or not.

Muggles have ever inspired fear in the hearts of wizards. They are the majority of the world, and they bow down to their powerful deities, all dead save a few starving demigods and river goddesses. They do not realize that the gods, to prevent the Muggles from destroying the world, created the wizards. We alone understand that there is magic, that there is power, that there is life in everything. The Muggles have always been trying to destroy the gods' creations. They cannot be allowed to do this, I have long reasoned.

When I first heard of the Dark Lord, my blood danced, my heart sparkled, my mind sang. Purify the world, make it whole again! Make us a proud people again! The Muggleborns could not be trusted, though. They did not understand that magic was the only alternative. Machines are the fiends of earth, and those behind them should be stopped, with force, if necessary.

How could we reason with the Muggles? They are too busy fighting each other, too busy threatening each other with their explosive deaths, their substitute magic. They believe that pushing a button will make them stronger, will stop the opposition, will turn their problems to dust. But the Muggles do not realize that the earth's problems are their problems, too. They do not understand that if they turn the earth to ash, they, too, will be turned to ash.

We have before tried to reason with them, and have failed. Worse, we have been violated, our rights of nature taken for a Cross and a flame, a book of rules and two tablets broken in spite. These new religions cannot tolerate the old ones, and they cannot tolerate others! They should be gone, and He alone can take the path needed, a martyr of life and beauty--twisted into a form of malevolence and Dark pieces. I alone can understand the splendor found in his cold skin, his red eyes, his cold voice.

Cold is what I feel, and it is lovely. Cold is refreshing and unchanging. It is power and darkness. It is a constant. It is autumn and winter, spring and half of summer. Do you not see? I need this, for if I lose it, I will be swept away. I will be gone, and in my place will be forty weak men, seeing only a far more powerful being and a safer life for them and their kin. They do not understand that there is no safety anywhere. The danger is what distinguishes us from the Muggles, who believe in their safety, and therefore establish it with their electricity and Bibles that promise paradise beyond death regardless of the sins we have committed in this life. I cannot live a life living without fear, without hatred, without consistency. Who are we but our habits? Who are we, indeed...

Draco dropped the scroll and fell back into his bed with a groan. Was she ever going to change? Her argument was so...perfect. It was as if she'd been having an argument with him, anticipating every move and writing them all down.

"FUCK!" he swore loudly. Why...why was he so angry? It was ridiculous. Either she would change, or she wouldn't. It was no concern of his. And yet...yet she seemed eager to learn. Could it be the world of practicality and ambition had grown boring? Maybe she didn't want consistency nearly as much as she claimed she did. He had seen her face when she saw the red robes. Despite the fact Hermione had given them to her, she was obviously pleased with the brightness and beauty of such a color.

She can change, he told himself, still angry for caring.

But, said a nagging voice, what price will be paid for this change?