NOTE: This chapter is rated FR13

Realities

I'm back. It's slow going when you have to move, and are combining multiple households. But at least my summer class is over. Thank the Gods for tiny favors. *sighs* I'm insane. I'm leaving it at that.

Once again, I own nothing except the twisting plot, and the plot bunny I adopted from Joe Hundredaire with permission.

Okay, enough about me, on to the fic...


******


Chapter Two: Realities

In a dark corner cubicle of Gringott’s Wizarding Bank, an innocuous looking piece of folded parchment sat atop a pile of correspondence before a harassed looking goblin and his small team of underlings. His journeyman was lecturing the apprentices on the proper handling of official Wizard event planning, stressing the importance of paying attention to such details as precise time limits and exemptions that could cost goblins excessive gold if overlooked. His personal secretary was organizing all the interdepartmental memos into neat files as he organized the timetable for the week. The old goblin himself sighed as he began to sort through the new work that had accumulated overnight.

When he came to the folded parchment, one grizzled brow rose in curiosity. It had been decades since he’d received a missive from the wizards in that office. Opening it, he quickly scanned its contents, and a gleam crept into his eyes. “How very… interesting,” he murmured softly. “This will be most profitable.” Folding the parchment precisely in half, he looked up. “Wrackspur, Breakpick!” he barked.

Two of his apprentices instantly gave him their full attention. “Yes, Master ThornBoot?”

“You will be delivering messages for me. Wrackspur, you are to find Master StoneHammer. He should be in his office. Tell him I must see him immediately. Breakpick, find the master of keys. Tell him I will be needing to access vault nine in records. We have a class three contract to meet.” All activity in the office ceased instantly as his remaining underlings turned intrigued eyes on him.

“Class three, Master? Which estate?”

“No estate. One of the subunits of the wizards’ Department of International Magical Law Enforcement. Eighth Disciplinary Decree, article five, subparagraph three.”

His journeyman smirked. “Witch or wizard?”

“Wizard turned witch.”

Sliding a sidelong glance at the attentive apprentices, the journeyman made a noncommittal noise and returned to his lesson, his mind only half on his task as he considered the potential ramifications of this intriguing development. The last time that particular rule had been invoked, the wizards had nearly gone to war over the result. It had been entertaining for him, as he’d been finishing his own apprenticeship at the time, in Asia. Only the need to avoid being drawn into the Muggles’ ‘World War’ of the day had prevented a bloodbath. He’d thought it a pity at the time.

After the two apprentices had gone, the remaining goblins in the office returned to their work as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

*****

Narcissa led her still speechless child into Madame Malkin’s. They’d already been to the Ministry’s family records office, and had the necessary records adjusted. Now they had to outfit her daughter appropriately. The seamswitch looked up when they walked in, and her eyes widened when she caught sight of the younger Malfoy.

As she stepped around the counter, she summoned her enchanted measuring tape and a quill and parchment. Smiling professionally - albeit somewhat uncertainly, she greeted Narcissa. “Good morning, Mrs. Malfoy. To what do I owe the pleasure today?”

Narcissa returned the smile, though her response was a bit sardonic. “Would that today were a pleasure, Madame. Unfortunately, my son has managed to give himself a permanent… how do the children say it today… makeover? And now I have found myself with a daughter who has quite literally nothing to wear. She can’t be seen wearing my things all the time, as that would make a dreadful impression on proper society, so I have to have an entire wardrobe created for her immediately. I need a full set of school clothes, in addition to proper day, evening, and formal dress robes including accessories. I will also need one plain white silk robe with matching stockings and shoes.”

With remarkable aplomb, Madame Malkin waved the younger Malfoy forward. “Right this way then, Miss Malfoy. Let’s get you measured and we can discuss your options for your wardrobe. Do you have any particular preferences?”

The young blonde frowned. “I have no idea whatsoever, Madame. I’ve never needed to bother with the fashions of girls before,” she replied sullenly.

Her words provoked a small frown out of her mother, and a wry twist of the seamswitch’s lips, as she nodded. “No, I suppose you haven’t. Well, once I have you fitted, you may take a look at the most recent editions of Witchwear while your mother and I see what I have available for immediate alteration. That way you’ll have a few things right away while I make whatever you decide to order for later. Raise your arms, just a bit, please.”

For the next few minutes, silence reigned as the young witch learned the difference between being male and female when clothing measurements mattered. By the time the process was finished, as slight shade of pink had crept over her cheeks, and she was noticeably discomfited. Afterward, she settled on a plush chair with the magazines Madame Malkin had offered, looking with only the vaguest sort of interest at the witches gliding about on the pages, showing off the latest fashions to their best effect. She really didn’t know what was so interesting to girls about shopping for clothes. Her mother had always ensured that she had had the highest quality clothes, and as she already knew what colours set off her own colouring, she had no idea what else there was to think about. So she fell into an introspective fugue, and failed to react when her mother first began calling for her attention.

“Bloody Potter! This is all his fault! Ever since that first day on the train that wanker’s been a thorn in my side. Bleeding Golden Boy leads a charmed life! If only that fat old fool hadn’t knocked into me, he’d be the one here picking out sodding witches’ robes-“

“Calypso Althaea Malfoy!”

The young witch jumped, cringing at the sound of her new name. Her mother had declared that as she was no longer a boy, that it wouldn’t be fitting for her to have a male name. She hadn’t thought much about it until her mother had announced what she had decided to change it to before the Ministry official in the records department. Throughout his life, Draco Malfoy had been proud of his name, if somewhat defensive when people laughed upon first hearing it. Today, however, she secretly cursed the fascination the oldest families seemed to have for giving their offspring names out of Greek and Roman magical history.

Carefully schooling her features into a mask of calm, she turned her head toward her mother. “Mother?”

“Were you listening to yourself? It is entirely unbecoming to mutter obscenities in public. You will abide by my wishes, or I will take steps to ensure you learn to do so. This is not the time, but rest assured, we will discuss this further. Now, come and see what we have selected for you to wear until our order is prepared.”

With a put-upon sigh, Calypso stood and shook her flaxen mane back before following her mother across the dress shop. Crossing her arms petulantly, she eyed the assortment of robes with a rebellious pout. Aside from the standard Hogwarts uniform, of which there were three, the two elder witches had found several outfits that were not unattractive. There were four winter weight outer robes, in rich brocades. One was a lovely deep hunter green, the second was pure gleaming silver, the third done in midnight blue so deep it was nearly black, and the last was the darkest red she’d ever seen, shot with pure silver threads that shimmered like the gossamer web of a spider in the moonlight. Beside the winter robes lay several dayrobes, suitable for entertaining, in a variety of colors, cuts, and fabrics, complete with accessories. In a basket lay a discrete pile of underthings and sleepwear. A formal riding gown, two greenhouse workrobes, and a flying uniform completed the collection. Knowing that she would have to try each item on, the young witch considered balking at the array for a moment, but then considered the fact that as a Malfoy she would be expected to have such a wardrobe.

For the next hour, she was shuttled into and out of the different outfits at a dizzying speed, and by the time her mother was satisfied, each item had had minor alterations done and something in the range of another fifty robes and gowns had been ordered for her. Not for the first time, Calypso found herself heartily wishing she’d never thought to try to sabotage Potter’s potion, as she finally flopped gracelessly into a chair while her mother settled the bill with the seamswitch. She was quite certain this single shopping trip had cost more than she’d spent before on clothes in her life to date, and she had the distinct sense that this was going to be the rule, rather than the exception in future, if she were to continue shopping with her mother. There was a reason her mother’s clothing closets had infinite storage spells on them, after all.

The two Malfoy witches walked out of Madame Malkin’s at half three, more than four hours after they’d entered, trailed by Cani and Lupi, two of the family house elves, each carrying bags containing their young mistress’ new wardrobe. The younger Malfoy held her head high and deliberately ignored the thinly disguised - and occasionally open – stares she received as she walked beside her mother from other shoppers. Inwardly she fumed, but she knew Narcissa was already more than angry with her and had no wish to provoke her further. Lucius may have been known among the Wizarding world as a bastard, but in the Malfoy heiress’ opinion, Narcissa was the far more frightening of the two when angered.

Calypso was a bit startled when her mother led her into Olivander’s, until she considered the fact that her wand had been reacting a bit strangely to her casting since the accident. Of course Narcissa would have been apprised of such a thing by her godfather. She sighed. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her lovingly cared for ebony wand. At least she wasn’t replacing hers because she’d broken it like that idiot Weasel. That thought cheered her for a moment, and she was smirking slightly when Mr. Olivander appeared from behind a set of shelves.

“Ahh, Miss Malfoy! I had heard of your change in circumstance! I’ve been expecting you. Happens every time, you know. Nasty side effect of the potion. The length of the wand arm changes suddenly, and with the shift in magical signature, the wand no longer responds properly. Well, let’s get you measured for your new one then.” The ancient man pulled out his measuring tape and measured her casting arm from armpit to wrist, from elbow to fingertip, and around the wrist, before hurrying to the back. As was its wont, the tape continued measuring random parts of her body, and when she suddenly squawked because it was measuring the distance between her nipples, Olivander suddenly seemed to remember the thing and said “Enough.” It fell into an innocuous looking heap on the counter, leaving Calypso eying it murderously, while Narcissa covered a tiny smile with an intricately embroidered silk handkerchief.

Mr. Olivander returned carrying half a dozen wand boxes, and set them on the counter. He held his hand out for the old one. For just a moment, Calypso hesitated, loath to let go of the wand that had been her constant companion for the past five and a half years. Then she bit her lip and handed it over. The old wizard smile gently at her and turned the black wand over in his hand. “Ebony. Ten and one half inches. Dragon heartstring. Well cared for, I see. No nicks or scratches, properly polished, not a speck of soil. You’ve taken commendable care of this wand while it’s been in your possession. I’ll give you full credit for its return, Mrs. Malfoy.”

Narcissa gave him a surprised look. She’d expected to have to haggle to gain a fair return value for the wand. She had spoken with other parents who’d experienced the unfortunate necessity of replacing their children’s wands and had to fight to get back even half the original cost.

The wandmaster, correctly interpreting her shock, offered her a gentle smile. “Mrs. Malfoy, there are a few unique circumstances in your child’s case. First and foremost, this wand exchange is not due to neglect or abuse of the wand, but to ill fortune, which caused an incompatibility with the wand to which your son was initially matched. Furthermore, this wand is in exemplary condition. Once I have purged any lingering energy from the previous bond and rebalanced it, it will be ready to sell again, to a new witch or wizard. I will not have to take it apart and try to salvage the core, or re-bore the wand shaft, or even refinish the surface. Were I not intimately familiar with every wand I’ve ever crafted, I would wonder if this were a copy of the wand I initially sold to you.” He held up his hand to forestall the objection he saw forming on both Malfoy witches’ lips. “I’m aware however that it is not. Each wand has a unique signature, which resonates clearly to those who know how to feel it. I’ve been in this business longer than you can imagine, and I know exactly which wand this is. You paid eleven Galleons and fourteen Sickles for this wand. When you are matched to your new wand, I will credit that amount to the cost of the new wand and we will determine the remainder thus. If your new wand is more costly, you will pay the difference, if it is less, I will reimburse you the remainder.”

Narcissa nodded her agreement. It was standard business practice to do things thus, and she appreciated his straightforward manner. The selection of a new wand was tedious enough without having to contend with underhandedness or petty bargaining. She settled herself in a comfortable seat to the side to wait while her offspring was tested by the wands presented for her.

Thirty minutes later, after several failed matches, Calypso was finally matched to a new wand. Mr. Olivander beamed at her. “Very interesting, Miss Malfoy. That’s one of my more unusual pieces. The wood for that wand came as a gift from a dryad bonded oak, and the core is a lock of her own hair, woven with a single tail hair of a golden unicorn stallion, who was her guardian and friend. I chanced upon them long ago, when I was a young man. This wand has been in my keeping for a long time. Best of luck to you, young lady.”

Somewhat stunned, the younger Malfoy trailed her mother out of the wand shop, thinking about her new wand. After stopping in another shop for a baffling array of items that Calypso had never even imagined that apparently every witch simply had to have – cosmetic potions, hair care items, and the like – and still another for things she’d rather not have ever learned the existence of, her mother dragged her into a small, discrete establishment tucked into the corner of Diagon Alley she’d never noticed before.

A young witch behind a desk greeted Narcissa with a polite air. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Malfoy. Take a seat, you’re a bit early. She’ll be out to speak with you in a few minutes.”

After looking around the comfortably but simply appointed waiting room, Calypso eyed her mother suspiciously. “Mother, where are we?”

“Patience, darling. You will see. Sit down and wait please.” Though the words were polite, and the tone matched, the warning in Narcissa’s eyes was quite plain. A bit nervously, Calypso sat on one of the chairs lining the walls of the room. What seemed like an age later for the young witch, but was in fact roughly five minutes later, a witch a few years older than her mother came through a side door of the room and called them both back. They were escorted to a small office containing a desk, three chairs, and a table.

For the next two hours, Calypso found herself alternately outraged, terrified, embarrassed, and revolted as she was educated on the proper care and health of her new female body, and was subjected to an examination to determine the aforementioned health, including reproductive potential, of her ‘witchly bits’. When the witch performing the examination, who was apparently a specialist mediwitch for that sort of thing, commented on her state of purity, Calypso’s embarrassment turned to mortification. Immediately after that, when Narcissa commanded her to ‘see that you stay that way’, she heartily wished for the Dark Lord to appear and grant her a quick death. When it was over, it required every bit of her control to not run screaming from the place, and she was very quiet as she followed her mother to the Floo station in the Leaky Cauldron for their trip home.