Transformation I: The Year Of Living Differently

Chapter 4 - The Result ----------------------

It was odd, living in this world. He felt free here, but he knew it was an illusion.

Something had changed in him, things were no longer as certain as they were. He'd known, even before he went to Hogwarts, that he'd been different. That his intellect was different, his hungers different. Malfoy, MacNair, Avery, they'd been hungry alright. Power was their god, power and what it could get them.

He'd been hungry too, after all that's why he was in Slytherin wasn't it? The Hat had said as much. "Yes, yes, old family, Slytherin time out of mind, but you've got that Ravenclaw intellect haven't you. No doubt though, you won't settle for just knowing, you want to do things with that knowing. And you want the power that comes with it, so it's obviously SLYTHERIN"

He'd not been in any doubt really, after all he'd been brought up to it. To the understanding of power and politics, to the very-far-from-simple world of the old family purebloods with their alliances and their version of ethics, their unconscious prejudices, and their very conscious actions.

He'd gravitated to the power structures quite early on, he'd known that the the only power he had, the only way he could protect himself, was by using his abilities. His path was clear.

He had to make himself a valuable resource, and then the ones with the muscles would be told to protect him instead of beating him up.

And so when he had the chance to go with Lucius to the Dark Lord, it really hadn't taken much effort to decide to go. Hogwarts was full of the mediocre, the Ministry was full of the medicore, Voldemort was running rings around them. He was gratified to see that the Dark Lord knew his value. This was a hell of a lot better than being hounded by those damned Gryffindors who wouldn't know something was valuable without a label signed "Dumbledore". And probably not even then.

He was startled when he'd been asked what he wanted to do, but he grabbed the chance. "I want to do a Potion Master degree my Lord" he'd said. And because he hadn't yet learned to stop while he was ahead, never mind to keep his stupid mouth *shut* in the Dark Lord's presence except for "Yes my Lord" and "No my Lord", he'd added "In Alchemy".

"Alchemy eh. You really think that muggles have something they can teach us?"

He'd felt the temperature drop then. Arrogant idiot, he should have realised that the Dark Lord would have that reaction!

Gods, what had he done? Oh well, keep going, this might just be a test. Might not be any retake for this one though....

"They aren't up to our standards my Lord, but they have kept some things alive, and are developing others. We can take what they know and use it. I'd need to go to a Muggle university. But once I have what they know, I can combine it with the real learning, and use that to strike at our enemies."

Finally, after what seemed like days, his throat closing with building tension...

"It will be. Enjoyable. To blast that filth with their own learning. Very well. Arrange it."

He'd overlooked the hatred in the words, or rather it hadn't bothered him then. Muggles, mudbloods, all the mediocre, what did they matter?

That's how he'd thought all his life, why did it seem so odd now?

He looked out onto the busy High Street, seeing the colourful crowds, the laughter, the life in it all. He thought of the library with all that learning in it, the lab with amazing machines and tools and charts, how could they be worthless if they had produced all that?

And how could he keep doing what he was doing? Best not think of that. Just concentrate on exams, and after that, the PM research.

Don't think about what it's used for, don't think about the jobs you are asked to do. Think about the nice clean world of the lab, and the library. Think about those.

Of course eventually he had to think about what he was doing. Think about the fact that it did matter that the people he'd met, and lived with, and laughed with, and argued with, and learned from, and yelled at, and that one time got drunk with, were Muggles.

The problem with having a trained intellect was that once you had a fact that didn't fit the hypothesis, you couldn't ignore it. Facts. Too damn many facts, if you could call the way people screamed a fact.

The absolute danger he was in right now, approaching the enemy's stronghold that had been home for seven years, that was a fact. The fear of the Dark Lord, that was a fact.

But the Muggles he'd met - his teachers, his classmates, they were facts too. The screams and the roiling in his belly as he carried out his orders, they were facts.

You can't continue like this. Alchemy and learning and awarding of degrees are nothing in a world where babies are smashed against walls to break their parents down, or just because someone with the tattooed mark thinks it is fun. Or because they had a label on them saying "not one of us".

He'd been one of them, that year. And that was a fact.

The only thing he could do with all these facts was what he was doing now, and he had no idea what the end result would be. There was no prior research to guide him.

All he could do was knock on that door and say "Headmaster? I need to talk to you".