Metamorphome

Chapter Six: A Comparison Terrifying and Morbid--But I'll Hold Your Hand As You Jump

Morrigan's following week was rather busy, mostly because she spent most of her time above the basement. Following breakfast, Draco would let her out of the basement. Hermione handed her six books, telling her which books to read first.

Morrigan's first book was Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl. Morrigan looked at it in distaste. "This is a Muggle book," she said defiantly. "Why are you giving me Muggle books?"

"Because if you're going to find out that Muggles aren't bad, who else are you going to learn from? As it is, I don't know any Muggles that the Order can trust to bring into Grimmauld Place, so you're stuck with a written voice."

"Gee, sorry," Morrigan snapped sarcastically. If Hermione noticed, she ignored it.

"Don't apologize, just read the book and tell me what you find." Morrigan settled herself upon the couch and opened the book, her eyes skipping from word to word quickly. At lunch, Draco called Hermione and Morrigan into the kitchen, where they ate leftover ham and potatoes.

"Where are you, Morrigan?" Hermione asked briskly, helping herself to the potatoes.

"Mm...May ninth of nineteen-forty-four."

"Oh, that far?" Hermione asked. "Quite good. Not as fast as I am, of course..." Hermione caught a dirty look from Morrigan and Draco and promptly shut her mouth.

"Have you learned anything thus far?" Malfoy asked, his voice steady.

"Well, I understand what she's feeling, but it doesn't mean I appreciate it."

"Why not?" Hermione asked crossly.

"It's just a novel. If someone had actually felt these things--"

"That's an actual diary, Morrigan," Hermione interrupted.

"It was?" Morrigan inquired abashedly. "I can't believe it! Where is she now?"

"She died," Hermione told Morrigan, her voice hard. "The Nazis caught on and raided the house. Anne was sent to the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp where she died of typhus two months before her fellow prisoners were released near the conclusion of the war."

"That's ridiculous. It's all ridiculous. The Nazis can't have had any good reason for incriminating the Jews. Anne and her family weren't criminals, after all. They were no better or worse than the next person," Morrigan protested.

"So you're saying that all Muggleborns and Halfbloods are equally evil? That's not really all that different," Draco said snidely. Their eyes met, and Draco read Morrigan's perfectly. You know why I hate Muggles.

"Yes, it is," she said coldly.

"How so?" Hermione asked.

"Because this is about the Jews and the Nazis--both Muggle groups. I mean, it's not for Muggles to decide which Muggles are worse than the other. They're all capable of more or less the same things."

"I know!" Hermione joined in, her tone rather patronizing. "People aren't born evil, they're made evil. So, if they were born in the same society, they should really be all the same. The Jews went to the synagogue, the Germans to their church. And it wasn't just Jews, Morrigan. There were gypsies, homosexuals, cripples...the list could go on an on. They didn't stop. Ever. They just kept going. As soon as Hitler could figure out another 'inferior' social group, he put out a call to send them to the concentration camps, to take away their rights. His hatred kept growing and the people kept dying and the regular civilians kept ignoring it..."

"Exactly," Morrigan snorted. "Muggles are stupid." She paused for a moment, at loss for what to say next.

Suddenly, "I guess it's all my fault that my parents conceived a witch and she took advantage of the gifts provided, then," Hermione remarked sarcastically. "Just like it was all Anne's fault that her parents were Jewish."

"I--" Morrigan started, but Hermione held up a hand.

"Don't finish it. Admit it, it's wrong."

"Fine," Morrigan snapped. "But no matter what you say, Muggles are still a blemish. No matter what you say about Muggleborns and Halfbloods, Muggles cannot be trusted. They should be destroyed."

"Then what?" Hermione barked. "Then...then we have to intermarry until everyone on earth is inbred?"

"Hermione, I think you're seriously underestimating the wizarding numbers--" Draco said, but Hermione cut him off with her palm, which flew up to stop him.

"Admit it, Flaherty. We need Muggles and they need us. We need them to live and they need us to keep the earth alive."

Morrigan looked surprised at Hermione's admittance that the Muggles killed the earth; at the fact that Hermione understood the horrors the Muggles visited upon the Earth.

"Oh yes," Hermione railed on. "I'm fully aware of the pollution that Muggles have begun. I'm fully aware that they're bent on a path of destruction. But without them, wizards will eventually die out, like it or not. There are so many humans on earth; it's safer to have children because we don't have to worry about genetic mutations. Wizards are superhumans, but we don't dominate the earth, power or no."

Morrigan looked down at her food, pushing it around with her fork. "I understand," she mumbled, and Hermione and Draco exchanged a look of pure delight. Morrigan looked back up with a glare on her face. "But I won't be happy about it."

Draco and Hermione laughed out loud in relieved tones, and Morrigan grinned wryly along at her own childishness.

After lunch, Morrigan helped Draco clear the table, and then went back to the couch to finish her book, although the conversation related to this book was closed. Morrigan had learned something, and she now understood, partially, why the Order worked so hard to protect the Muggles. It was almost more out of practicality than love for Muggles. The Dark Lord's been wrong all along. Their mercy is more than a weak fancy. This thought disturbed her, so she stood and walked back into the kitchen, where Hermione was once more mixing a pot of cleaning solution.

"May I have the next book?" Morrigan asked. "I finished Anne Frank."

"Very well," Hermione said, wiping her hands on her robes and wrinkling her nose at the potion. "I think I did something wrong. It's not turning bright blue like the book said it should."

"Did you add peppermint?" Morrigan asked, and Hermione frowned.

"It doesn't say to add peppermint."

"Of course it doesn't. That's Flaxer's copy of the potion. He copied it from an old copy of Tina Lawcer's. Apparently old Flaxer forgot the peppermint."

Hermione reached into the cupboard, grabbing a leaf of peppermint. She dropped it in the potion, which instantly turned transparent blue. She smiled brightly at Morrigan then led Morrigan to her, Hermione's, bedroom. Sitting at the top of the pile sat Pride and Prejudice.

Hermione handed this to Morrigan and said, "This should take you perhaps this afternoon and tomorrow morning, if you're a good reader. Otherwise it will take you about a day and a half."

"I think I should get it done in less than a day," Morrigan laughed, prancing out the door with the book in her hand.

It took her a day and a half.

Upon reading the last bit, she snapped the book shut and walked angrily into the kitchen. "I've never detested a book more...ever."

"Why?" Hermione inquired flatly.

"It was so...cliché."

"How would you know?" Hermione asked scornfully.

"Even I know what 'happily ever after' means," Morrigan snapped. "Everyone married their favored husband except for Mary, who got the bum deal. In my opinion, that girl was far more intelligent than the rest of the lot." She frowned. "Actually, I did rather like Elizabeth--until she gave into Darcy."

"Don't forget, Kitty didn't get her husband either," Hermione admonished. "You didn't like Darcy?"

"Who could?" Morrigan retorted angrily. "He was proud, conceited, and he tried to excuse his social disgraces away with lame explanations of...of...genuine intent!"

"But he had good cause," Hermione reprimanded gently. "He had been wronged by both Wickham and Elizabeth, who provoked him into returning her attacks in kind."

"He was rich and used it as his excuse," Morrigan snapped. "As if his pedigree made him better than the Bennetts--" Morrigan clapped a hand over her mouth. "I didn't!" she exclaimed, but Hermione nodded with a delighted smile.

"You're learning..." she taunted, dancing out of the kitchen and going to fetch the next book.

And so it continued. As she read The Hobbit, Morrigan was forced to take pity upon poor Gollum, whose "Precious" had been stolen. The poor creature was pathetic and addicted, a creature of the Ring. Hermione didn't bother painting the similarities between Morrigan and Gollum--if Morrigan was going to understand this, she had to see the pictures in her mind. Morrigan also had to acknowledge the courage and bravery of Bilbo, another similar figure. Although afraid of change, he participated in the greatest change of all--and was all the better for it.

Morrigan read The Secret Garden with delight. She loved secrets and the thought of having something just for her own keeping, especially a place. Her room at Parselart had been so sacred to her, so personal. The privacy had seemed beautiful to her, divine. The book unfolded before her, and she found that the characters had been attractive to her, as well. Mary--oh how cross she had been. But she grew from Mary Contrary into a healthy lass of earthly wisdom, smart even for a Muggle. And Dicken...oh earth-savvy Dicken with his pony and his raven...Morrigan could not help but to find a boy sympathetic with ravens appealing--although she hadn't the slightest idea why.

Morrigan was next handed Phantom of the Opera, which intrigued Morrigan with its complexity. Personally, she was of the opinion that the Phantom was far too intelligent to be tied up with that twit, Christine Daae. Let Raoul take her! Morrigan urged every time the Phantom pined for the betraying singer. She's not worth your genius, Erik! Morrigan was rather satisfied by the ending. Although it was rather tragic and dramatic, it was good. She did find the Phantom's penchant for throwing fits and killing people a bit irritating. He was, after all, an adult, and just because Christine didn't love him--well, that was no reason to kill helpless innocents. She didn't notice this tiny change in her personality, since it was so tiny, and made so much sense, she barely recognized it as sympathetic.

As her mind changed bit by bit, becoming compassionate to those who lay in the power of others, she began to wonder what on earth was happening to her mind? Were they poisoning her, making her feel this way?

But no, she felt more certain of her thoughts now. It was like waking from a deep slumber. She'd always known these things. She'd always known that it was wrong to kill without need of defense. That side of her had lay dormant for a long time, or had never seen the light of day. The books and words dug deeper into her mind, giving room for other, more revolutionary thoughts. How could I have done these things, these things that I have despised of characters in books!

She was now torn back and forth between her old thoughts--Mudbloods and Halfbloods cannot be trusted--and her new ones--I don't need to prove my point with the end of a wand. What is my point? she thought. I have no point! I am not superior to Hermione, who has never killed an innocent soul in her life. She is just as smart as I am, possibly smarter. She is happy, despite her lack of connection. Even more, people love her, while people despise me.

Still, there was a nagging doubt at her positive thoughts. Do not forget what they've done to you, what they've done to your peers. Do not forget the Dark Lord's power, or that he has helped you so much over the past few years.

No, Morrigan wasn't entirely way done. She had not yet repented for killing countless people, although the guilt was starting to weigh heavily upon her, tug at her mind, upset her sleeping at night.

Upon conclusion of The Phantom of the Opera, Hermione handed her Irish Gems of Wit and Humor. Morrigan looked at it disparagingly. "How will this help me?" she asked.

"You have yet to learn to laugh for fun rather than cruel snickering," Hermione said softly. "Read them sporadically. And now," she said abruptly, "I need help cleaning. Would you care to help me with my chore?"

"Sure," Morrigan said with a smile, putting the book on the table and instantly forgetting it. "What do you need?"

"Well, there's a rather large collection of valuable heirlooms in the storage room, and if you'll get them for me, I'd be much obliged. Last time I tried to remove them, it was rather painful."

"I bet," Morrigan returned wryly. "Purebloods like to keep Mud--er, Muggleborn hands off their booty." She turned and headed toward the storage room. She opened the door and found that the room was already lit and occupied.

Before Morrigan was crouched (to say he was standing was surely an overstatement) the most pathetic creature she had ever laid eyes on. He was obviously a House-Elf. He wore a loincloth for a garment, which was ratty and disgusting. His skin was a mottled greenish-grey, slightly reminiscent of bogies. His ears were long, twisted, and torn. His nose was stretched and seemed almost blue. Most conspicuous of his facial features were the eyes, which had turned to look at her with such adoration that she almost jumped back in fear.

The elf flung himself at her feet and began to say in an old, croaky voice, "Oh beautiful witch!"

Morrigan was horrified. "I'm not beautiful," she muttered, trying to kick him off her boots for fear of soiling them. "Get off me!"

The elf sank low to the floor. "Oh, Kreacher has long waited for such a beautiful Madame as she," he moaned, sinking to the floor. "Perfect witch of oldest blood, of the Purger's Order..."

"Kreacher!" Morrigan said loudly. "I'm not your Madame. You can stop calling me that."

But the house-elf wasn't listening. He was running on and on about how glad he was to see her, despite the fact (which neither of the two knew) Kreacher's preferred mistress hated Morrigan. She looked at him, and as he spurted his nonsense of adoration, she realized with a jolt that he was just like her.

How many times had she prostrated herself before the Dark Lord and said the same exact things? How many times had she called the Dark Lord her master? Had she begged him for orders so that she may please him? Really, she'd been pathetic, too. She'd let Voldemort shower her with gifts and praise, had confidently sold her soul to him for his affection--his false affection.

If she continued her life beside Voldemort, she might someday find herself just like Kreacher. Old and useless, pathetic and bumbling, speaking in third person and muttering inanely about asinine beliefs--old fashioned and insipid. This was her. Kreacher was Morrigan, and Morrigan was Kreacher. In that moment, Morrigan fled from the room, her face hot and hands clammy. She needed to be alone.

She did not want to run headfirst into Malfoy.

With a shriek she tried to untangle herself from him, but he held her shoulders and gave her a good shake. "What's wrong?" he demanded, his voice rising over her pained moans.

"I can't--"

"Tell me," he said fiercely. "I will listen and you should speak," he whispered. Morrigan's eyes doubled in size, then she allowed herself to be pulled upstairs and into an empty room. "Sit," Draco ordered and Morrigan sat on the moth-bitten armchair, then leaned forward and put her head in her hands, pushing her hair back out of her face, staring down at the floor.

"I'm pathetic," she whispered. "I don't have any allegiance to anyone anymore. Not even myself."

"You don't have to," Draco told her. "You shouldn't have to put your complete loyalty in anything."

"No, I'm weak, I'm a fool, and I'm... I'm just like that blasted house-elf."

"Ah," Draco muttered. "So you've met Kreacher, have you?"

"He's just like me. He's a bumbling, adoring...filthy..."

"Stop," Draco ordered. His face was pale, and Morrigan noticed for the first time that he didn't look well at all.

"Are you all right, Malfoy?" she asked. "You look ill."

"I'm fine," Draco snapped tersely, his tone brooking no argument.

"Sorry," she whispered. Draco turned and looked at her. "You're not pathetic," he told her. "You're sadly misinformed. Hermione's informing you. Some day you will have enough information to decide where your loyalties lie. And then you can do whatever feels right to you."

"And if that's the wrong side?" She threw her hands up. "It doesn't matter! Anywhere where I go, I can never make up for what I've done...what I've been!" Morrigan cried, standing and beginning to pace. "I'm a monster, I should never have existed!" She stopped turning to face Draco with hysteria forming in her eyes. "Never have I had less influence over my own thoughts, my own emotions! Lately I wake at night, waiting for my Dark Mark to burn, but it doesn't, and I don't understand why! I think things will stop being so confusing if I just feel that sweet burning, see my skin writhe morbidly as the Dark Lord calls out to me. But it doesn't, and I'm forced to finish the night alone, with no master and nothing to get me to sleep. Not the reassuring flickering of the flames, satisfying prickling of my Dark Mark, not the cries of a victim in my power..." Her eyes flickered momentarily, becoming animal-like and wild, but then changed back. "I just want to be certain of something, to know."

"I understand," Draco told her. "But you understand that life isn't worth living if you can anticipate the rest of your life. You were bored, Morrigan. Bored of following orders, of looking at the same dreary darkness, of listening to the same cries for mercy. You were scared to death of fucking up and losing it all, but you were even more terrified of living your life that way."

"You're wrong," Morrigan told him, shaking her head. "I wanted nothing better than to spend the rest of my life that way. I was content. I had everything I'd ever wanted--"

"Well sometimes we find other things that we want," Draco snapped. "Sometimes we don't know what we want. Sometimes what we wanted never was what we wanted. You were unhappy."

"I don't care about being happy!" Morrigan cried. "I don't even know what that means. Happiness, sadness, madness, anger--they're all emotions! They're fleeting, they come and go--"

"Stop being so conservative!" Draco snapped. "You were not content, so don't tell me you were. You weren't discontent, either; you were searching. You looked forward to dueling with Bellatrix. Maybe you wanted to win and prove yourself the very best, or maybe you wanted to die, I don't know! But you're like a wild cat. You were never meant to be someone's pet--there was is? too much bite in you. And now we're giving you the opportunity to embrace it and you don't want it because you're scared. You're scared that you'll like it too much or that you'll lose control of yourself...that you'll have to depend on someone. Unfortunately, I'm not leaving you until you can do it yourself."

Morrigan's eyes widened and she wasn't sure what to say. "I don't understand."

"Oh for the love of Merlin!" Draco cried angrily. "I'm telling you that you're going to have to step out there and just do it, whether you want to go back to Voldemort or not! Let yourself go. I promise--I'll hold your hand."

And he did. He reached out and grabbed her hand. Morrigan gaped up at him gracelessly, but she didn't pull away. "Okay," she said.