Unbidden Desires

CHAPTER 18 - Bring Me to Life

"Urgghhh," Draco groaned as he collapsed heavily onto a couch in the Slytherin Common Room shortly after dinner. He rubbed his stomach as his face contorted in pain. "I don't feel so well. I think I ate something that didn't agree with me," he gasped. He swallowed air, trying desperately to keep his meal down. Heedless of Crabbe and Goyle's infantile giggles, he sprinted for the loo.

He emerged ten minutes later, looking quite pale and sweating bullets. Most of the Quidditch team was already suited up and ready to head down for the pitch for practice.

"Gods, Malfoy," Warrington remarked with disgust. "Tell me you're not planning on coming down to Quidditch practice looking like that."

Draco agreed, "No, I don't think I'd better . . . I think . ." He burped loudly, causing his teammates to cringe. "I think I need to go lie down."

The captain begrudgingly relieved him from his practice commitment. "Yeah -- I think you should." Suddenly, he whirled around and shouted excitedly, "Say, Grant! Can you fill in for Malfoy tonight? I've read that your flying skills are bloody amazing! What do you say?"

Most of the other team members were mildly surprised, except for Adrian Pucey. Grant, take Malfoy's place? Was it just for tonight, or would it be a more . . permanent arrangement? Was he really that good, and more importantly, could he cheat as well as the rest of the team? Not to mention, what would Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy think if their precious son were actually dropped from the Slytherin roster?

Crabbe jabbed his fellow Beater in the ribs and mumbled thickly, "Warrington reads?"

Michael raked his fingers through his sandy hair as the team looked at him expectantly. Surely, he would say yes; after all, it was just a practice session. Nothing at stake, and besides, he would get a chance to show off his skills. Instead, the normally-confident boy hesitated, as if the prospect made him feel inexplicably nervous. Eventually, he relented.

"Sure. Why not? Nothing stirs my blood like a good, rousing game of Quidditch. Can I borrow your broom, Malfoy?"

"What? You mean you don't have your own?" Draco chuckled as he wiped the sweat off his brow. "You're joking. What self-respecting member of the world-famous New Zealander Grant family would come to school without his own broom?"

Michael smiled and attempted politeness. Unfortunately, he wasn't terribly good at it. "Right. Of course. My broom is much better than yours," he boasted shamelessly. "It's just that, I thought -- well, surely your broom is Charmed to follow your team's regular playing patterns, and I hoped you wouldn't mind if I . . borrowed it, just for tonight?", his tone implying that Draco would naturally want to hand over his high-Galleon racing broom to him, simply because he had asked.

Draco nodded and said flatly, "Sure. Let me go get it for you."

Michael offered, "I'll go with you." Turning to the other team members, he said, "I'll join the rest of you lot down at the pitch in a few minutes, all right? I should be there shortly."

A few of them murmured their acceptance, and the group shuffled toward the door. Warrington was beside himself; he would finally get to see the famous player in action!

All the way to the sixth-year boys' dorm, Michael scowled at the back of Draco's head. Sick, my arse, he thought. He followed close behind him, grinding his teeth, the intense anger glowing in his eyes.

Once they were inside the room, Grant grabbed the older boy's arm, spun him around, and whispered hatefully in his face. "Look here, Malfoy. What is wrong with you? I don't know what the hell you're playing at, but this is going too far."

Draco snapped back, "Nothing. I've an upset stomach, and I can't play tonight. Besides, Warrington's been dying to see you at your best. So go on, impress him -- maybe you can fill my spot permanently. It's what you want, isn't it?" He knelt before his trunk, reaching inside to retrieve his broom.

Seeing that he was apparently quite serious, Grant laughed nervously in an attempt to deny the accusation. "No, it bloody well isn't! I abhor flying; I Apparate everywhere."

"Oh, so what you're saying," Malfoy drawled as he withdrew a book from his trunk, "is that this book is chock full of lies?" Rising to his feet, he paused and looked him squarely in the eye. "Or maybe you are?"

Grant snatched the book from his hands. "What?! Up and Coming Quidditch Stars: The Hope of the Future for the Sport? What does this have to do with me?"

Malfoy pursed his lips tightly, seething as he inhaled and exhaled evenly through his nose. His fingers curled into a fist, and he muttered in a low voice, "Apparently nothing." He stared at him then asked, "Who are you really?"

There was a sharp knock at the door, and an instant later, it burst open.

It was Warrington, a pleading look on his face as he stamped his foot impatiently. Completely ignoring Draco, he begged, "Come on, Grant! We need you! Can't release the Snitch till you're there."

The regular Seeker and his substitute eyed one another, both boys narrowing their eyes suspiciously. Draco shoved his broom toward Michael and said gruffly, "Take care nothing happens to it."

Grant winked at Draco and gave him an arrogant smirk. He spun around so quickly that the back end of the expensive broomstick hit the wall with a 'thwack'. Then he obediently followed the burly captain. Draco shouted, "Careful, you!"

He angrily slammed the door shut after him then yelled, "And good riddance!"

He flung himself onto the bed and threw, more than dropped, the Quidditch book onto his lap. He sat there, flipping through the pages absently, growing more and more frustrated by the enigma that was -- or rather, clearly was not -- Michael Grant. Soon, he tossed the book aside and soundly kicked it off the bed, sullenly crossing his arms in aggravation.

The book landed on its spine, opened and facing up. On its pages were a number of young wizards and witches who were all smiling and waving at him. As Draco looked down to see if any of the girls were pretty, he noticed something in the crease between the two exposed pages.

It was a slender piece of parchment, about the size of one of those quaint, old-fashioned calling cards, only it was smaller. In fact, the little bugger was so thin, that he almost didn't see it at all. It couldn't have been left to mark someone's place, because if it had, they would never have found it again.

He dove for the parchment, surprising a few of the witches and causing their hands to fly up toward their faces. He stood up, parchment in hand, and the nervous witches in the photographs breathed a sigh of relief. One of them shook an angry fist at him, and Draco sneered at her in response.

He unfolded the thin note very carefully. On it were neat letters written in scarlet ink, four of which were very dark, emphasizing their importance. Scripted in handwriting that was vaguely familiar to him but not instantly recognizable, it simply read:

Unforgivable Curse Detection Potion, Phase I

"Of course," he voiced slowly, although no one was there. "U, C, D -- One."

He dismissed it at first glance, theorizing quickly, That's stupid, really. Someone who's heard 'Avada Kedavra' is dead -- and sadly, dead people can't take potions, the poor saps. And when you've been hit by 'Crucio', you know it -- at least, I always have -- it's not something you easily forget, unless you're 'Obliviated'.

Snorting to himself, he muttered, "UCD-I, indeed. Just another idiotic idea some Ministry employee conjured up to waste--"

Another thought occurred to him, causing his mouth to clamp shut in mid-sentence.

Wait -- what about the Imperius? He sat there, silently pondering the sheer magnitude of such a discovery. Can it really detect it? And if it can -- wouldn't it be just bloody amazing -- if it could tell other things, like . . . who cast it?

If this potion actually worked . . well, he couldn't begin to fathom its impact on the Wizarding World. The very idea boggled his mind. He thought of all the times the Imperius had been used, and its use had been questioned. They may have been able to help Mr. Crouch, possibly even have stopped his son, before the old man was killed. The boy may have never gotten the Kiss . . . And as for people who say, "But I was under the Imperius Curse!", they would actually have to be--

He laughed wryly, saying aloud, "There goes Father's defense."

Now that the note writer had his attention, Draco suddenly found himself extremely interested in Advanced Herbology. How can I get my hands on Pansy's notes? If I try and go to the girls' dorms, the staircase will melt under my feet, and then I'll be flat on my arse! He knew this from a personal, not to mention, painful, experience in his fourth year.

Instead, his thoughts returned to the anonymous message and why it happened to be in the precise library book he had chosen on this particular day. Frankly, he was shocked at his incredible stroke of luck. Then remembering who this particular bottle was meant for, he scoffed to himself, saying, "Now, that is ridiculous. Mother's not under an Unforgivable Curse -- she never has been! Why would that old bat Pomfrey think she needed--"

He flew off his mattress and opened his trunk, searching desperately for the potion bottle. All of a sudden, there was another knock on the door, causing him to look up as his breath caught in his throat. He stood up quickly and pocketed the bottle he had just located. After clearing his throat and checking his appearance in the mirror, he opened the door to see who it was.

"Mother! What are you doing here?"

"You said it was urgent, so I came straight away. What is it?" she asked. At the same time, she hugged him with minimal affection, placing a hand on each shoulder as if to distance herself from him.

He remained silent for a moment, trying to think of a way to bring up the matter of this . . . potion, especially considering this newfound information. "Err . . . ," he began weakly.

As he stood there, hesitating, a slight scowl came to his mother's face. "Wait a minute. I just saw your captain and some of the other boys all suited up in their uniforms." She snapped, "Why aren't you at Quidditch practice? Don't tell me you got yourself booted off the team -- those broomsticks set your father back quite a bit!"

He shrugged, "I skived off." The expression was lost on her. Naturally, he thought to himself. "I faked sick," he said slowly. "I have other things to do. And now that you're here, it's a good thing I did."

His mother rolled her eyes and sighed nonchalantly. "Well, maybe so, but what is this 'very important matter' you needed to discuss with me?" She paused, then venturing a guess or two, she asked excitedly, "I know; you have a new girlfriend and you want to plan an engagement. Are you and Lydia back together? Or is it that Parkinson girl? She's so delightful. Oooh, or maybe your father has talked to you about . . . You-Know-Who?" Her eyes were alight with expectation, and Draco thought she looked slightly mental.

"No, no, and . . . no -- in that order," he replied dully. His lack of enthusiasm was evidently not to her liking. Her face fell, giving her a cold sneer that Potter once described as looking as though she had something foul under her nose.

Blimey, he's right. That is rather frightening.

He shrugged it off and pressed on to more urgent matters. "Mother, how was Dionysus when he returned?"

Visibly disappointed at his response, she raised one shoulder as the sneer on her face deepened slightly. She said very matter-of-factly, "A bit tired, perhaps, but otherwise, fine. Why?"

Her son explained, "I sent you a letter a few days ago, along with a small package." Her sneer disappearing completely, she raised an eyebrow, obviously surprised; he went on. "Did you get . . either one?"

She thought for a moment. "No, I only got your letter from this morning. I did receive a smattering of owls wishing me a happy birthday, but no, nothing from you," she answered, clearly despondent that her son had forgotten her special day.

Shit, I blew it again, he chided himself. "I'm sorry, Mother. I've been awfully with school--"

Ever the drama queen, Narcissa sniffed and pressed her monogrammed silk handkerchief delicately to her nearly-perfect nose. Her son groaned internally and then continued. "So Dionysus didn't bring another letter or . . . anything from me?"

She snipped, "No, I already told you, he didn't." Then in a wistful manner that made her seem almost charming, she asked sweetly, "What did you send, dear? Was it a present for me?"

Looking at her with unabashed admiration, he observed silently, Her smile always could light up a room; why doesn't she do it more often?

"Yes. A -- a present," he faltered. Convinced that the potion was not at all necessary and would have absolutely no effect on her, he relaxed and gave her his most winning smile. "Yes, you could say that."

He withdrew the bottle from the front pocket of his trousers. "Happy belated birthday, Mother."

"What is it?" she asked, grasping the bottle from him hungrily.

All hesitation gone, he lied to her as smooth as silk, "It's an anti-aging potion. Makes you look younger by easing your lines." He backpedaled for a moment, saying, "Not that you have any, Mother, but when you do start to get them, this will lessen their appearance."

She stared at the bottle, mesmerized. Not really caring what he replied, she inquired, "Did Severus brew it?"

"I think so. Either him or Madame Pomfrey." Smiling confidently, he added, "I hope you like it."

Narcissa looked at him tenderly and said, "Thank you, Draco. It's perfect and so very thoughtful of you." She ripped out the cap and drank the bottle's entire contents without stopping.

Once it was gone, she gazed into the mirror, hoping for at least some results against those little annoying creases she had recently noticed around her eyes, but nothing happened.

Her son suggested, "I guess it behaves -- subtly, more slowly than most potions. I'm sure the results will be gradual, just as wrinkles themselves are."

She nodded her head toward him, not looking directly at him, never taking her eyes off her own reflection. "But . . . but why isn't it working yet?" she fretted.

Mrs. Malfoy's eyes suddenly drew wide as a stab of pain shot through her chest and abdomen. She began to breathe very rapidly, and Draco thought she may hyperventilate. "Mother?" he said, swallowing nervously. The pace of his breathing increased, too, from seeing his mother so distressed and knowing he was the cause of it.

Feeling he had made a horrible mistake, his voice quaked as he asked her in a panic, "Oh, Mother, are you all right?"

Her eyes filled with fright, she looked at him and shook her head rapidly, gasping, "No!" and scaring the hell out of him. She clutched at her stomach and squeezed her eyes shut as tears flowed freely. "Poppy!" she screamed. "What have you done to me?!!"

Then she collapsed.

#####

Narcissa Malfoy was whisked away to the hospital wing by two of Hogwarts' most repugnant house-elves, Kreacher and Sossy. Once there, she was swiftly tended to by Madame Pomfrey herself. The mediwitch examined her, trying to determine what effect the potion had had on her. Draco sat in a nearby chair, fidgeting uneasily and chewing on his manicured nails. Each time he caught himself, he would remove his fingers from his lips, only to resume the nervous habit again a few minutes later.

From time to time, he would stand up, pace around her bed, and pester Madame Pomfrey for a status update. "Please, Mr. Malfoy," she assured him, "do sit down. I assure you, she'll be fine. She just took too much at one time."

Still reeling from the shock of it all, he fell back into the chair and put his head in his hands. Why didn't I just go to practice? he asked himself for the thousandth time.

Madame Pomfrey completely ignored the dramatics coming from the occupant of the chair next to Mrs. Malfoys' bed. Oblivious to his anguish -- and thinking he deserved a fair lot of it, anyway -- she continued checking on the woman and making notes on her chart. When she had finished writing, she looked up at Draco and criticized, "You really should have told her to follow the directions; they were on the note attached to the bottle, for Merlin's sake."

He squeezed his eyes shut, once again feeling like kicking himself for making such a serious blunder. He felt like he really would be ill; this time, it wasn't fake at all. He darted for the loo.

When he returned to his mother's bedside, the mediwitch appeared to have finished. She said to him with a sigh, "She's going to be all right, Draco. She's in no pain, and she's resting now. A slight overdose, but no permanent or serious damage." Walking away, she mused quietly, almost to herself, "Why would she have taken it all at once, I wonder?"

Unfortunately, Draco hadn't even glanced at the label. He took for granted that she would do that. I mean, what idiot drinks a potion without reading the directions first? Biting his lower lip fretfully, he called after her, "How was it supposed to be taken, then?"

She turned around to face him and replied, "Well, the label says to take half of it now, then the other half within two hours, and in the presence of a qualified mediwitch or mediwizard."

"And you're sure of that?"

She laughed humorlessly. "Well, I should hope so. I made them myself." At his questioning look, she clarified, "The instructions and the potion."

Still, Draco couldn't bring himself to confess his sins; instead, he murmured a word of thanks as he turned to go. Stopping at the doorway, he finally managed to say something to her. "Madame Pomfrey . . . you will keep me informed, won't you? Let me know something the minute her condition changes?"

"Of course, I will." She gave him a sweet smile, perhaps the kindest look she had ever given him. "You can rely on it," she assured him. Draco managed a tight smile and a weak nod in Madame Pomfrey's direction. Then giving his mother's motionless form one last regretful glance, he left.

He returned to his dorm room in an attempt to at least do some of his homework before the two gorillas got back. He went inside, massively relieved that his roommates had not yet returned from Quidditch practice. They're probably in the changing rooms playing sticky biscuit. Sodding poofs.

But even sarcasm didn't begin to relieve the incredible guilt he felt about what had happened to his mother. Despite his best efforts to contain them, slender tears escaped his eyes as he leaned back against the wall. He exhaled heavily and hung his head. Looking down at his robes through bleary eyes, he blinked purposefully, as if doing so would shut out the memories of seeing her, lying there on the cold floor, screaming in agony.

True, they didn't have the best mother-son relationship. But he did have feelings for her, in some almost compulsory way. Did they love each other? He didn't know. He only knew that a dull ache had risen in his forehead, which he began to massage as he continued to stare at the floor. That was when he noticed a small, shiny, very out-of-place object, lying next to the trunk that was closest to the door.

It was a small mirror, rather like the one his mother used for touch-ups to her face. Its frame was silver; her favorite color. Must be hers, he surmised. I'll take it to her in hospital later. He swooped it up and started to put it away. Yet when he touched it, something made him not want to put it away, but to stop and study it. He could easily feel its desperate pull, the magnetism -- the magic -- it most certainly contained.

No, this was no ordinary mirror. It didn't feel exactly right, and then when he moved it one way or the other, the glass within seemed to . . . ripple slightly, like a still pond suddenly disturbed by a pebble breaching its tranquility. He tapped it with his wand; it rippled again, but in a way that was not the least bit soothing. Quite the opposite, really. The mirror's movement made his skin crawl.

His homework forgotten, he set off to see if he could find out more about this strange mirror and what powers it possessed. He knew exactly where to go; no one knew more about the Dark Arts at this school than he.

#####

Professor Snape was in his office when Draco arrived, but someone else was already in there with him. Recognizing her voice, he felt a small thrill building inside, and he peered around the doorway to gaze at her. Ginny Weasley was getting a make-up assignment for the work she had missed as a result of caring for his mother's bird this morning.

Gods, was that only this morning? he marveled. It seems ages ago by now, all that happened with Tonks . . and Charlie . . . Grant, and Mother . . . His mind continued to wander, nearly forgetting his reason for being there. He found it hard not to stare at her. Soon he gave up trying and gaped at her openly.

"There, Miss Weasley," Professor Snape concluded as he handed her three books, "you should be able to find enough in these volumes to fill at least ten feet of parchment. But fortunately for you, I only require five," his lip curling as he added the last remark. "You are to write about the properties of the three most dangerous and illegal potions, and then make valid, feasible suggestions of how you think the Ministry could better control them."

She fought the urge to groan, simply saying politely, "Thank you, Professor Snape. I will turn it in at the start of my next Potions class, the day after tomorrow."

"Oh, no," he corrected her. "No, I expect it first thing after breakfast. Tomorrow," he clarified. "You've got it easy -- you should be grateful you didn't have to brew anything as difficult as the other fifth-years did this morning."

"Yes, sir," she said respectfully. All the while, her mind was muttering, Do wash your hair, you slimy git. It's utterly repulsive.

She spun around quickly, anxious to just go and be on her way to the Library. When she glanced up, she startled slightly on seeing who was waiting just outside the doorway.

"Draco!" she exclaimed, pleasantly surprised. It was hard to keep it from her voice, and the intonation was not lost on the Potions Master.

"Miss Weasley," Draco answered in a rather clipped tone. Turning to face his Head of House, he greeted him, "Good evening, sir. I was wondering if I might have a word."

Professor Snape eyed Ginny, saying, "You may go, Miss Weasley. Looks like you have a full night ahead of you."

"Good night, sir," she replied, nodding modestly.

"No, wait--" Draco started, touching her arm to hold her there. "This concerns her, too." Ginny raised her brows slightly and gave him a goofy grin; he winked in reply.

"Fine, Mr. Malfoy. Do make it snappy," he added with a leer in Ginny's direction, "Miss Weasley has a five-foot essay to write by tomorrow morning." After a brief pause, he asked snootily, "So. What do . . the both of you need to discuss with me?"

Draco withdrew the mysterious mirror from his robes and handed it to Professor Snape. "See, Ginny and me, we found this. Earlier today. It looks enchanted, and I suspect -- no, I feel certain that it's dangerous."

While his mentor examined the looking glass intently, Draco went on. "Actually, I've seen one of these before. One of my uncles had one when I was very young -- my father's brother, I believe. But I definitely remember one thing about it. I was forbidden to touch it by everyone, even my uncle, who normally indulged me," he said plainly.

Professor Snape's black eyes narrowed gradually as he scrutinized the item. He said to them, "I see. And where did you find it? How did it come to be in your possession?"

Draco looked over at Ginny for a split second then lied without hesitation, filling in the missing pieces as he went along. "I believe Michael Grant may have dropped it. Between late afternoon classes, he was just ahead of Ginny, and I was a few feet behind. She sidestepped it, so as not to break the glass, and I bent down and picked it up."

Professor Snape turned it over and studied the sides and back, touching it gingerly with his wand. He tested a few of its magical properties with his broad range of skills. Ginny marveled, watching him with fascination as he worked his way toward a solution that neither she nor Draco could have possibly foreseen.

When both of the students thought he had given up, he finally spoke. "I thought so," was his monotone announcement.

"Sir?" Draco asked. Ginny continued to look on, not saying a word, barely even breathing, hoping that Snape would forget she was standing there and therefore share his conclusions with his protégé.

Instead, he set the glass on the floor and stepped away. Poising himself, he flicked his wand and said in a strong, clear voice, "Vita Memorai!"

Soon the glass in the silver frame undulated, rippling relentlessly, as tiny wave-like patterns washed up to meet an invisible shoreline. Then the mirror actually bent, yet did not break, protruding upward as if the drops within were seeking release from their prison. But it wasn't the dry water -- or whatever the substance was -- that sought its escape from the glass.

Shortly after the mirror flexed, a sandy-haired boy of about 15 had materialized in Professor Snape's office, just as though he had Apparated. The confused, frightened boy shook his head, probably trying to clear out some of the cobwebs inside. Professor Snape spoke in a gentle, soothing tone. "Hello, Mr. Grant. Welcome to Hogwarts."

"Wh-where am I?" was his breathless reply, his face one of complete bewilderment. "Who are you, and . . . where have I been? Oh, my poor father, my brothers -- they must all be worried sick!" He swallowed then asked, "Wherever I've been, how long was I there?"

Draco thought this was the most bizarre line of questioning he had ever heard. Then he wondered briefly how he himself could ever have been so stupid -- this boy's accent was completely different than that of the imposter. The not-Michael-Grant, as Tonks had called him.

Professor Snape woke Draco from his reverie, introducing himself and the others to Michael and explaining where they were. "You, my friend, have been gone a long time. You have been at our school, since the beginning of term, but," he added regretfully as he pointed to the bent glass on the floor, "your spirit has been here, locked inside. Someone has used you against your will."

"What . . ?" Grant asked, his head still swimming. "What are you talking about?"

"What's the last thing you remember, Mr. Grant?" the Potions Master quizzed him.

Gathering his thoughts, he blinked his eyes deliberately and then spoke. "Well . . I was walking way home one night from my oldest brother's Quidditch match. It was around mid-August. I'd just left off some of my friends who had gone with me, and I was alone." He paused then looking into the man's sallow face, he said, "That's the last memory I have."

A brief silence followed. Then voicing what everyone was thinking, Michael asked, "But who would do such a horrible thing? And why?"

The professor eyed him cautiously, taking in his appearance and manner, and if Draco's assumptions were correct, reading his thoughts. "That, we're not sure of. Yet. But I feel you may have been the victim of a very rare spell done with a mirror called a Soul Window." Moving over to his fireplace, he said, "Excuse me for a moment. " Then grabbing a pinch of Floo powder, he tossed it in and said, "Albus Dumbledore!"

The students looked on as the Headmaster's weathered face appeared in the fire. "Yes, Severus? How may I help?"

"Professor, I have found the real Michael Grant," he announced with pride. Holding up the Soul Window, he added, "He was in here. Would you please notify the proper authorities so they can arrest the perpetrator? Whoever it is, I will hold him here until they arrive."

"Of course, without question," came the kindly response. "I will also ask Remus and Tonks to join you; surely, she will be delighted to have finished her mission here and to take her suspect back to Ministry headquarters. I will send them both to you as soon as I can." Professor Snape reluctantly agreed and bit back a grimace.

Before he disappeared, the elderly man added, "Oh, and congratulations, Severus. I'm sure New Zealand will be very supportive of your receiving The Order of Merlin, First Class, as will I."

At this, Severus Snape actually smiled.

Returning to the teens and their lost expressions, he told them what he knew about Soul Windows. "As I'm sure you have already guessed, the Soul Window is a mirror that is nearly impossible to get one's hands on. They're generally passed from generation to generation, never leaving a wizarding family and rarely being used. It takes a great deal of energy and concentration to cast the spell. House-elves, given their blind allegiance and misunderstood yet very powerful magic, have often aided wizards in casting and maintaining this complex spell."

As he spoke, he strode to his locked supply cabinet and opened its doors with a command spell that only responded to his voice. He withdrew a vial of clear liquid which Ginny and Draco knew immediately to be Veritaserum.

"A Soul Window works rather like Polyjuice Potion, only you don't need to take anything every hour to maintain the outer appearance. It's acts more like a 'soul displacement' spell for the victim; the caster looks like the person, but he acts completely like his own self. To keep the spell intact requires a complicated daily maintenance procedure. It can even fool enchanted maps-- "

This remark garnered Ginny a glare of his beady eyes then he continued, "In fact, some of the most clever witches and wizards in the world have been fooled by it, making it extremely dangerous. If it weren't for its relative obscurity, I'm certain it would be labeled an Unforgivable Curse."

At his comment, Draco felt yet another twinge of guilt, followed by a dull ache between his eyes. The Potions Master concluded, "For some reason, Mr. Grant, someone wanted to be you. Or at least, look like a student who was a stranger to the rest of us. Whoever it was could absolutely not afford to be found out."

"But who would do such a thing?" Draco chimed in.

Professor Snape looked around the room, ensuring every eye was on him, just as he did with all of his classes. "That, Mr. Malfoy, is what we're about to find out." He stood over the mirror once more, chanting an entirely differently spell this time. "Coniverea Exvelum!"

In a flash, the real Michael Grant simply evaporated, as if he had never been standing there. Draco conceded, Merlin knows where he went; probably home in New Zealand by now. In the transfer student's place stood -- someone else, someone completely different . . someone Draco recognized instantly. I should have known! Crossing his arms over his chest, he stepped closer and smirked wickedly.

"Hello, Aunt Bella. Anything you wish to share with your favorite nephew?"