Metamorphome

Chapter Eight: Analyzing Morrigan

Hermione woke the next morning with a strange feeling in her stomach. It was as if something was jumping around in there with no consideration of the owner. Oh god, I kissed Malfoy last night, she thought to herself, rolling out of bed. She dressed slowly, unwilling to brave the awkwardness of the kitchen. Draco would be there, silent and brooding as usual. Morrigan would be inquisitive and observant. And she, Hermione, would be embarrassed and cautious. Hermione picked her clothing with care. For some reason it was important that she looked good. Perhaps she wanted Draco to notice her more, or maybe just look more confident than she felt. She picked her favorite robes over a knee-length pleated skirt and short-sleeved blouse.

Hermione closed the door quietly behind her as she left. She flipped her hair over her head for a moment so she could put it up into a ponytail, then descended to the doom below.

Draco was sitting at the table, a newspaper sitting in front of him, a mug of steaming coffee in his hand. He looked up when she came in, then looked quickly back down, averting his eyes embarrassedly. So he's rather ashamed of last night, too, she thought grimly. Good.

Morrigan had already finished breakfast. This morning she'd made buttered scones, sausages, and eggs sunny side up. Hermione helped herself to the food, muttering a quiet hello to her peers at the table. Morrigan looked at Draco and Hermione and said casually, "My, we do seem subdued today."

Hermione looked up quickly, her eyes frozen on Draco's. He didn't look up, but simply said in a dull tone, "Hermione lost a bet last night."

"Oh really?" Morrigan asked with a sly grin. "What was the bet, Hermione?"

"I thought...I thought you would make kippers this morning," she said lamely.

"I made kippers yesterday," Morrigan remarked. "You know I hate making the same thing day after day."

"Yeah, I must have forgotten," Hermione muttered, still not looking up.

"What did she bet, Draco?" Morrigan asked him, and he looked up, his expression mild.

"Oh...ten Galleons."

Morrigan winced. "Ouch, that's a bit much to bet, don't you think? I bet Draco set the price, nasty rich bugger." She laughed and the other two cringed inwardly at this remark. Lying to Morrigan felt horrible, and both of them were sagging with guilt. "Hermione, you should rest today. You've been working all week. It is Saturday, you know."

"What did you have in mind?" Hermione asked, trying to move away from the previous subject.

"What about chess?" Morrigan asked with a sly grin.

Hermione groaned. "I'm terrible at chess."

"I'm not," Draco said with a smirk. "I'll play you."

"And I'll win," Morrigan announced, her smile broad and arrogant.

"Ha!" Draco snorted. "I haven't been beaten since my first year at Hogwarts, and that was by a seventh year."

"You must not play that often," Morrigan retorted. "Don't worry, I won't beat you too bad."

"I'm quivering in my boots," Draco told her wryly.

The three finished up their plates, Morrigan anxious for the game of chess. Hermione offered to clean up, and Morrigan accepted graciously. Draco and Morrigan left their plates where they were, and with a backward glance at Hermione, Draco led Morrigan into the sitting room. "There's a chess set in the corner," he said, and spotting it, levitated it onto the coffee table. Morrigan sat cross-legged on the floor, across from Draco. The board opened to reveal a lovely set of ebony and ivory pieces. The tops of each bore a tiny emerald.

"This is lovely," Morrigan murmured in a low voice, then said louder, "I'm black."

"As you like it," Draco acquiesced, inclining his head.

They set up the board, each piece sitting firmly in its place. "Go ahead, Draco," Morrigan told him amusedly. He moved his left bishop pawn first, and thus began the game.

They bent over the board for long hours, sometimes unspeaking for thirty minutes at a time, other times holding long conversations. Each piece lost was few and far in between. It was no doubt that both were good players, and well matched. For every piece one had lost, the other had lost the same. Hermione showed no interest in the game. Each time she would enter the room and see them still playing, she would throw up her hands and leave, interjecting a frustrated phrase, such as, "Oh, those two!"

As the time passed, Morrigan noticed that Draco was watching her closely. His eyes mightn't be focused on her, but he was always watching her, marking her every move, as if he were memorizing it for future reference. It was rather creepy, but at the same time, flattering. She wanted Draco to be watching her often. Morrigan ever sought a nod of approval or murmured agreement. Every time it happened, she would blush with joy, although to admit it to anyone would surely mortify her to death.

They had to break for lunch, which was a quiet ordeal. Hermione had switched meals with Draco for today, and she had made submarine sandwiches with ham, cheese, and spicy mustard. Both Draco and Morrigan finished quickly, and returned to the sitting room to continue their game.

They had moved about the board so much they were no longer defending sides and were instead defending corners while brutally attacking the other. Both became careless with fatigue at the game and they lost more pieces in fifteen minutes than they had the entire game. Now Morrigan was left with a pawn, her queen, a bishop, her rook, and her king. Draco had his king, his queen, a knight, and a rook.

Suddenly Draco saw an opening and took it, his queen putting Morrigan's king in check. Too late he noticed that Morrigan could take his queen. With a triumphant cackle, she replaced his queen with her own on the board. Draco swore, studying the pieces. "Aha!" he exclaimed, and his rook took her own queen. Now they were left with bit pieces and their kings. Morrigan's pawn took Draco's knight, but the rook put a stop to her bishop and pawn before she could carry out further damage. Morrigan's king inched after her rook, all the while avoiding check. Finally she backed the rook into a corner, two spaces from the king with nowhere to go, since moving her rook would mean putting the king in check and taking her piece was out of the option. Morrigan's king moved away, unable to get the pawn for fear of being in check. Then Draco made a dumb move and tried to protect the other side of the king, two spaces from the king's protecting arm. Morrigan's king snatched the rook and threw it at the crumpled heap of pieces, all taken out of the game. The game was tied, neither had won.

Morrigan shook Draco's hand sportingly, then pulled her hand away shyly, embarrassed at the direct contact. She sat on the couch, turning in her seat and placing her feet up on the cushion, just by Draco. "Good game," she quipped, forcing a normal smile.

"Yeah," he replied. "We should do that again soon."

Morrigan looked down, unsure of what to say. When had things gotten so awkward between them?

They've never been normal, she thought to herself brutally.

"I read some of that Mythology book," she told him.

He looked at her piercingly. "Oh yes? Did you find any that you particularly liked?"

"I seem to recall more about Cu Chulainn," she answered slowly. "I don't really understand some of them."

"What don't you understand?" Draco asked with a frown.

"I don't understand the Tristan and Iseult one, actually. I've read it several times, and it just...I don't get it," she said, her voice a little irate.

"It's all right if you don't understand. This is all very new to you. What about it is so confusing?"

"So much of it," Morrigan confessed. "I don't understand why Iseult fell in love with Tristan in the first place. They barely knew each other."

Draco knew he had to choose his words carefully. Whatever he said now could affect her impression of love later. "They were fated to love each other, Morrigan."

"The stars can't make me do anything I don't want to. I'll change them if I have to," she scoffed stubbornly.

"Okay, if this is easier for you, I imagine what really happened was that Tristan adored the beautiful young woman that saved his life not once, not twice, but three times--she'd saved him from the poison, hid him from her mother, and hadn't killed him herself. This gratitude and adoration quickly became infatuation. Tristan himself, I have read, was an exceptionally good-looking young man with a heart of gold, and supposedly honorable and loyal. Iseult wouldn't have been able to keep herself from such an admirer. After all, Tristan did all he could to make Iseult Mark's."

"Except sleep with his wife," Morrigan cut in dryly.

Draco nodded. "Iseult and Tristan didn't have much choice. They were so helplessly in love with each other, they couldn't stop themselves. The love potion made them so obsessed with one another that it might have literally driven them mad with desire."

"That was stupid of Iseult's mother, by the way," Morrigan said, crinkling her nose. "She should have known that it was an awfully long trip between the islands."

Draco sighed. "You'd be surprised what parents do for their children."

Morrigan froze up. "Would I?" she asked coldly.

"Sorry," Draco said quickly. "I didn't mean to offend. Obviously Iseult's mother wanted her daughter to be happy with whatever course her mother chose for her."

"Well she should have let Iseult make her own decisions."

Draco gave her a look. "You understand how those things worked then. You understand how they work now. Rarely do parents allow for their children, most especially those with perfect pedigrees, what they, their children, want. Tristan was an orphan, a mere knight. His political value was next to null. No, Mark was the wise choice. If Iseult had been clever enough to see it, she could have appreciated Mark, too."

"Mark was the safe road," Morrigan scoffed. "Iseult was right in doing what she wanted. Women have always been men's playthings in British society. If what she wanted was Tristan, she should have gotten Tristan. Besides, women were socially superior in her own society. Going from a feminist culture to a machoist one was hardly fair, nor easy."

"You're right," Draco agreed. "Would you have picked Tristan if you had been Iseult?"

Morrigan laughed. "I would have run away and picked my own life," she told him. "Depending on males because you love them destroys lives."

Draco raised an eyebrow at her. "You sure this is always the case?"

"Yes," Morrigan enumerated with great certainty. "Always."

"Don't be so sure," Draco warned her. "Sometimes you'll find that women have based their lives around men since birth, and have always been happy doing so."

"But it's...never mind," Morrigan sighed.

Draco smiled amusedly. "You'll understand someday, perhaps."

"I hope not," Morrigan said, crinkling her nose.

Hermione stuck her head in the door way, looking around. "Is it safe?" she asked them. Seeing that they were only conversing, she walked in the room confidently. "What were you talking about?" she asked idly, sitting down in the armchair.

"Life," Draco told her simply.

"Yes, it's always changing," Hermione said cryptically.

Draco laughed. "Okay, Trelawney."

"That is in no way Trelawney-esque," Hermione protested. "It made too much sense."

"True," Draco conceded.

"Who was Trelawney?" Morrigan asked.

Hermione made a face, then said, "Trelawney was this teacher from Hogwarts. A 'professor' of divination." She snorted. "Professor of divination indeed! That dingbat couldn't divine a sheep from a dragon."

Morrigan's face took on a fascinated glow. "Did you enjoy your time at Hogwarts? Both of you," she added, looking between the two past students.

"I did," Hermione said. "Hogwarts was home." Her face clouded over dreamily, remembering feasts and friends.

"There were four houses, correct?" Morrigan asked.

"Yes, Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff."

"Hufflepuff...What does that name remind me of?" Morrigan muttered, scratching her head. "Oh!" She cocked her head to the side thoughtfully. "The Dark Lord has a cup in his library, on a shelf, that's some relic of Hufflepuff. I don't know what it's for, but it's rather lovely."

Hermione looked excited. "You're sure it's Hufflepuff?" she asked, leaning toward Morrigan and taking her hands in her own. Morrigan shrunk back in alarm.

"Yes, quite," she confirmed in startled tones. "Why?"

Hermione looked happy enough to burst. "I can't tell you why, but next time you see Harry, tell him this."

"Why?" Morrigan asked, her face turning red for irritation.

"I'm sorry. I'm not at liberty to tell. Harry might tell you, though, if you tell him," Hermione explained.

Morrigan sat back, crossing her arms and fuming. Draco smiled his little half-smile at her frustrated stance. "It's all right," Morrigan sighed, relaxing her shoulders. "I'm just used to being told is all." She bit her lip, then said, "You know, when I was with the Dark Lord. It seems like it was so long ago."

Hermione froze at this information. She knew in that moment that Morrigan was going to elaborate on her relationship with Voldemort, which was something Hermione had previously stayed away from.

"You know I stood at his right hand at all times. I was Death Eater royalty, the duchess of the bunch. He showered me in gifts for doing his bidding, even though it wasn't that hard. He told me what to do to whom, and I did it. I disposed of Tanya Avery, Ranjani Patil, and so many other people. And for every one, he gave me a souvenir to remember each death by. I have a ring of Shiva for Patil. You know what he gave me for torturing that Weasley girl?"

Hermione shook her head, eyes wide and horrified.

"The Potter mission. I don't know what their relationship is, but there's obviously some or he wouldn't connect the two."

"That's ridiculous!" Hermione snorted.

"Is it?" Draco asked. "Why would he go after Weasley? And why didn't he kill her? He let her go and gave Weasley her wand when they left her. It's the only plausible explanation. He likes connections, Voldemort. And he likes pain. More than anything, he liked the idea of Weasley's torturer being Potter's kidnapper. Make Morrigan responsible for the death. Give Ginny double reason to fight back. I don't know why he wanted to do that to Morrigan, or maybe he just wanted to piss the Order off. I don't know, but it was not a coincidence."

Morrigan shook her head at Hermione. "Draco's right. The Dark Lord hates coincidences. He hates fate. He picks every detail; he loves ceremony, symbols. Everything is significant to him. Everything."

"Morrigan," Hermione whispered. "How on earth did you end up in the ranks of the Dark Lord?"

Morrigan paused, her mouth half open, her expression thoughtful. "I suppose it's time I told you." She threw a glance at Draco, who nodded silently. And Morrigan began.

* * *

Hermione didn't know what to say when Morrigan concluded, and she said so.

"Don't," Morrigan told her shortly. "You'd just be wasting your breath. You...you and Draco had parents, had loving homes, and you chose what you'd become. Every time Draco called me a monster, I ignored him because I agreed. I thought I was a beautiful monster, powerful and strong. I was made, I didn't choose my path, and I was proud. But when he told me I never should have been born, something cracked. That couldn't be true. I was beautiful; I was faultless. I was a perfected creature. I didn't have emotion, and any earthly ties had long since been severed. I floated feelingless through my life, watching as if from above. Every scream I heard, every writhing body I watched...it was just another pawn, another tool for my lord." She laughed dully, a sound unpleasant and insincere. "Voldemort was the perfect master. I did his bidding, I was loyal, I swore fealty to him. But it was like following an old, outdated religion. I only believed half of it, only followed it when it suited me, just went through the motions. It just happened that most of it suited me, but if it hadn't, that wouldn't have mattered. I might have found something that did suit me. The bottom line is that I was like every other pathetic creature clinging on to the Dark Lord for support and power. He gave me what I wanted."

"But the letter," Draco said in a low tone. "That letter..."

"Irrelevant," Morrigan snorted. "I was so consumed by my self-righteousness, I actually believed I believed that. I didn't, of course. It was too easy for me to turn, to transform to what you knew was right. I liked the Darkness because it felt good. It felt good to have someone, someone I believed below me, screaming at my feet. It felt good to be rewarded for my crimes. I didn't care who I was hurting, or even that I was hurting myself. I just cared that I got what felt good right then. And until now, it's never caught up with me."

Her face looked, for the first time, old and haggard. Her eyes sagged, her shoulders slumped, and her hands laid limp in her lap, useless. Hermione's pity overwhelmed her. "You can make up for it, Morrigan," she whispered, her face white.

"Make up for it!" Morrigan snapped, her voice hard and bitter. "So, you don't mind sitting next to a murderer, a stupid killer, who doesn't have a conscience? I'll admit it, you didn't have a name until a few weeks ago. You were 'the Mudblood.' Always 'the Mudblood.' I couldn't remember your first name. I didn't want to. You were just something else to be used." Her facial features softened and she turned to look at Hermione, whose lip was trembling and her eyes watering. "Then I learned that I was stupid. That I didn't know what the hell I was talking about. I was pretentious and insolent. Ignorant. Blind. The list continues evermore. And I can't do a damn thing to save myself, nor any of the people whose lives I've destroyed."

"Morrigan--"

"Do you think Patil's family would want to stand in the same room with me after what I did to their mother? I promised her life if she gave me the information I wanted, and she gave it to me, but I killed her anyway. And then I laughed. Because she was naïve, and stupid, and weaker than I."

"Stop it!" Hermione hissed. "That isn't you anymore, and you can't change what you were, so stop it."

Morrigan seemed to wake up from her feverish self-reprimanding. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I should never have said that."

"No, you shouldn't," Hermione snapped. "Don't ever speak like that again. It will only make things get bad again. You were...almost like the old Morrigan for a moment."

"Was I?" Morrigan asked in a tired voice, rubbing her eyes. She leaned back against the couch, her head resting against the back and closed her eyes. There was a long silence as Morrigan thought, and Draco and Hermione watched her cautiously. Finally, "I always hated the color black. Orange was far more appealing."

"Orange?" Draco asked in an amused voice. "The Dark Disciple of Voldemort prefers orange to all other colors?"

"Yes, Draco, I do," she said, cracking an eye to look at him. "It's a very attractive color."

"If you say so," he replied in an amused voice. "You're a very strange girl. You thrived in the dark, but you were reaching for the light. You hate black, a color we can associate with your past, and you like orange, bright and warm, indicative of your future."

"Is it, indeed, indicative of my future?" Morrigan asked him, her voice light.

"Yes," he told her firmly. "You've come a very long way."

"If you say so," she sighed.

"What brought this all out, besides the prompting argument?" Hermione asked Morrigan after a long pause.

Morrigan sat up, then looked down at her hands. "I've been having nightmares."

"Oh. What sort of nightmares?" Hermione asked, unfazed by night terrors.

"You don't understand," Morrigan said crossly. "I've never had nightmares before. Or none that I can remember."

"Never?" Hermione asked her incredulously.

"Never," Morrigan insisted, shaking her head. "I've slept dreamlessly since I can remember."

"What are the nightmares of?" Hermione asked gently.

"Past victims," Morrigan sighed. "I can see their faces in my head. Over and over, screaming..." She shook her head as if trying to shake the images out forcibly.

"It will get better," Hermione told her. "I promise."

"I hope you can keep that promise," Morrigan grumbled. "I'm getting tired of this. No matter, though," she continued. "There's nothing I can do for these people, and I need to start working to try anyway. I haven't figured out how, but I'll think of something."

Hermione took Morrigan's hand in her own and smiled at her. "We will," she promised, squeezing her hand.

Draco's feelings of protectiveness went up another notch, his heart clenching as he watched these two remarkable women forge a new friendship, unlikely and bold.