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Chapter Two—Need a Perfect Stranger?

Draco met the owl in the gardens, holding up a steady arm as the bird angled towards him. It was a great horned owl, but bleached white as a snowy, with a silvery sheen to the feathers. This distinctive bird came from Metamorphosis, and Draco tried to still his own excitement with a deep breath. Just because the Manager of Metamorphosis had responded to his letter didn’t mean he’d accepted the case. He could have been returning a polite refusal whilst he concentrated on solving somebody else’s problem.

Draco’s hands really were steady, and his mind really clear, when he opened the letter. If this plan failed, then he would contact Blaise, who was living abroad now, and ask him to pose as his boyfriend. Blaise would think the whole thing was a scream, and since he didn’t live in England, being ostracized there wouldn’t bother him.

He held onto his calm until he opened the letter and scanned the first lines.

June 1st, 2010
Dear Draco Malfoy:

I am happy to tell you that Metamorphosis will indeed accept your case.

Draco closed his eyes and let his head fall backwards. He exhaled a long, shaky breath, The owl on his shoulder shifted a little and stuck a talon in his skin as if reminding him not to faint.

The moment of weakness was past quickly. Draco had become an expert at concealing what he felt in the last few years, so his parents didn’t even suspect he was tired of their restrictions and ready to rebel against them. But his real emotions remained alive, shimmering, under the surface, so he read the rest of the letter with a cool face and an increasingly fast heartbeat.

I have several actors who may fit your requirements. If you will meet me in the Hog’s Head at one this afternoon, I will be happy to show you their photographs and discuss other requirements you may have, as well as payment.

Sincerely,
The Manager of Metamorphosis.

Draco nodded, more than satisfied. The letter was courteous but not overly so, which would have smacked of smarm. And there was no crass hinting about a certain amount of money now. That would be settled when they met, in the way that pure-bloods had always preferred to do business. Draco wondered idly if the Manager was a pure-blood.

He had three hours to get ready.

First, though, he needed to locate some owl treats for this magnificent bird, and then he would write the letter and have the owl carry it back. He stroked the feathers once, with an impulsive affection, and walked back towards the Manor.

His mother was reading in the large back room that stretched three-quarters of the length of the house, and served at once as both study and conservatory. She looked up when he came in, and raised her eyebrows. “That’s a rather fine owl,” she said. “A new purchase?” Her voice was not, of course, edged with concern. The Malfoy family had kept its money after the war, and even increased it in recent years.

Draco chuckled. “No, just Pansy being extravagant. She’s invited me for tea this afternoon.” The lie flowed smoothly from his lips, even as he looked at Narcissa affectionately. He had become very fond of his parents as he prepared to shock and betray them. They were so much themselves that he found pleasure in interacting with them, as totally unique personalities.

He hoped absently that the actor chosen to play his boyfriend would have such a personality. He already knew what he wanted, but there was no reason that Metamorphosis should be able to provide every single tiny aesthetic liking to match his request. He would be happy enough if they met the broad outlines.

“Well, don’t be late, then, dear.”

Narcissa’s smile was brilliant. She never had given up hope that he would marry Pansy, though Draco knew Pansy preferred the Muggle lover she kept in secret to anyone the wizarding world could offer her. And though Draco himself slept with both men and women, Pansy would not have been his first choice. She was a dear friend, and that was all she was.

“I won’t,” he said, and went to fetch owl treats, parchment, and ink. He knew he wouldn’t seem suspicious now. That was the wonderful thing about telling a lie close enough to the truth to seem easily believable: other people saw you acting just as you were supposed to act and accepted the lie even more.

I wonder if the Manager of Metamorphosis is as good a liar as I am?

*

Harry stepped into the Hog’s Head, in his guise as the Manager, precisely at one. Aberforth glanced up, saw him, and grunted once, nodding before he looked away. He had done business with the Manager before, and so long as Harry and his customers were quiet and neat and left generous money, he’d protect their right to privacy fiercely.

Harry located Malfoy at once, but only because he had so much experience with glamours. Malfoy had cast a half-shield over his table that hid his distinctive hair and made nothing very interesting seem to be happening in that direction. Harry felt an eager smile slide over his face. To work with someone talented in disguise spells would be exciting, since that brought up the chance that he could see through Harry’s own.

Then Harry reminded himself he wasn’t supposed to be having such thoughts. It was the Manager here at the moment, not Malfoy’s boyfriend, and Harry had to play that part to the fullest. He shifted the portfolio under his arm, transferred the lemon sherbet he was sucking on from one cheek to the other, and then marched towards Malfoy’s table.

Malfoy saw him coming and rose to his feet. The move surprised Harry, though of course he didn’t allow that to show on his face or in his stride. He would not have received such courtesy a few years ago; he didn’t think anyone would have.

But you are not Harry Potter, and this is not the boy you knew.

Decidedly not, Harry saw, when he reached the table and put out his hand, to have it shaken firmly. Malfoy had grown into the features that had once seemed so narrow and angular for his face, and then grown beyond them. He looked hardened now, rugged, though so far as Harry was aware, he managed a business instead of working in the field. And yet his jaw and chin were also chiseled, making him look like one of the exquisitely modeled male statues that were one of Harry’s few luxuries in his own form.

Harry reminded himself not to be a fool, and nodded briskly once, then sat down on the other side of the table. Malfoy took the seat opposite him with a fluid economy of motion. Studying him, Harry rejected one of the imaginary personas he’d brought along right away. Malfoy would need someone who could keep up with him to make him look good on a dance floor or even just strolling along a street, and that persona had a bad leg.

Malfoy might not be aware he needed a companion like that, of course. But Harry was used to reading people and suiting their unconscious as well as their conscious requirements.

“Mr. Malfoy.” Harry raised a hand, and Aberforth was there with mugs of butterbeer. If Malfoy found the drink too distasteful or lower-class, he didn’t say so, though he did place the mug in front of him untouched. Probably prefers Firewhiskey, Harry thought. Possibly something else. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Now. I believe you said in your letter that you wanted someone who would not mind playing gay, someone not too hideous?” He waved his wand, casting a privacy charm around the table, subtle and nearly undetectable.

Malfoy blinked. “Your magic is impressive, sir.”

“Call me the Manager. It’s the only name I have.” And it was. Harry had never bothered to come up with a name for the form he originally met all his clients in when he only needed a title. “Thank you. Long practice.” He began removing parchments from the portfolio and arranging them in neat stacks on the table, spelling away the wet rings of former mugs where they might have been a problem. “I have seven candidates for you based on your initial requirements. They are different in personality, looks, blood status, magical strength—“

“I said blood status and magical strength didn’t matter.” Malfoy’s voice had cooled, as if he suspected Harry hadn’t read his letter thoroughly but was too polite to say so aloud.

Harry glanced up and winked. The Manager had grotesque winks, but at the same time they were so cheerful they encouraged his clients to play along. It worked as usual, and he saw Malfoy relax with a little huff. “Oh, I know that, sir. But Metamorphosis is about finding you the perfect stranger. If we can suit your preferences in any way, then we will.” He leaned back. Each pile of parchment now had a photograph on top of it, wizarding photographs displaying Harry in various identities he’d created but hadn’t used yet. “Take your pick, sir. The files should tell you everything you need to know.”

*

Draco was very carefully hiding how impressed he was, though he was sure the squat, fat little Manager could sense it. Said Manager reminded him of a cross between Flitwick and Hagrid. His hair and beard were flowing, wild manes of red on his tiny body, but he wore a neatly tailored set of gray robes and spoke with an accent that indicated he’d had the very best schooling. Draco could easily ignore what someone looked like when they were offering him everything he wanted.

He began to glance through the files. The Manager leaned back in his seat and pretended to ignore him, leaving Draco as much privacy as possible when they still shared a table. Draco felt a moment’s wonder. Metamorphosis really was as good as all his friends had promised.

The first photograph confronting him was of a short, sandy-haired wizard with a shy grin. His file said he was Thomas Ledbetter, half-blood, of an age that would put him several years behind Draco in Hogwarts. He admired Quidditch but had never been able to play it. He admired and envied pure-blood culture and had studied it extensively. His magical strength was normal. His personality was retiring, calm; he preferred to let his partners take the lead.

Draco frowned thoughtfully and moved that parchment under the others. Ledbetter was potentially interesting, but Draco thought he would probably need a more fiery partner to stand up to the assaults Lucius and Narcissa would launch.

The second photograph made Draco’s mouth go dry and his groin ache. The wizard, leaning against a wall with one boot poised on it, glanced up at him once and winked, then arched his neck back and licked his lips with a lascivious, cat-like yawn. His skin was deep black, so black as to seem blue, but he didn’t quite resemble any of the Black people Draco had ever met. His hair was fiery red, probably dyed, and his robes clung to him so tightly as to seem indecent. His eyes were brilliant, deep green. He was Purity, no last name, Muggleborn wizard, entirely self-educated—his family had refused him permission to go to Hogwarts, and indeed hadn’t liked having a wizard in the family at all—fond of dancing and sex and yelling at people.

Probably not, Draco decided regretfully. He could have some good times in bed with Purity, and the name was wonderful, but he wanted to give the appearance that he was simply gay and did not care about his parents’ opinions. Enraging them, as Purity would do, was not on the agenda. This was a deliberate rebellion, but the whole point was that his parents would not think it so.

He glanced up to find the Manager watching him politely from the corner of an eye, hands curled around his stomach. “I do have some more specific requirements, if you’d like to hear them,” he said.

The Manager nodded, not even showing a hint of anger that Draco hadn’t finished looking at the rest of the files. “What are they, sir?”

“I need someone who can act polite no matter what kind of shit my parents—or other people—happen to throw at him,” Draco said, beginning to tick the points off on his fingers. He would have felt uncomfortable indulging in such a childish behavior before almost anyone else, but the Manager relaxed him. “I need at least moderate magical strength; I find it arousing.” He shrugged. “I still don’t care about blood status, but I would prefer someone who knows pure-blood manners, whether or not he was born to them. I need a versatile man, capable of fitting into both my manor’s dining room and a Quidditch crowd well. Looks—I don’t want an incredibly handsome man, because I don’t want others fighting with me to flirt with him, but too ugly and people will wonder why I chose him, and maybe suspect this isn’t real. Of course, he should also be a good liar.”

“What about in bed?” the Manager asked, without turning a hair. He had nodded to all of Draco’s other points.

“I’d prefer skill there, as well, of course,” said Draco. “But if you have a straight actor willing to play gay who meets all the other requirements, I’ll forego that. We don’t have to sleep together, after all, only convince others that we are.” He leaned back in his seat, feeling a smile widen almost unconsciously across his face. The Manager was someone he could show his emotions to and not worry about their coming back to bite him; in fact, it was for the best that he show his emotions, so the Manager could honestly evaluate what Draco needed.

The heavyset man hummed under his breath, then flicked his wand and gathered up all the stacks of parchment on the table. Draco’s heart gave an extra thump. “You have no one who will fit my requirements?” he asked tightly.

“I do have someone.” The Manager looked him right in the eye. His eyes were a faint, watery blue, but sincere. Draco relaxed again. “But before I introduce him to you, I need to know one more thing. You said in your letter that your mother will need to be pushed in a different direction than your father. What did you mean by that? The answer might disqualify the candidate I present to you, depending.”

“Depending?” Draco raised his eyebrows.

“He really doesn’t feel any sexual interest for women,” the Manager said dryly. “If he’s required to flirt with someone as experienced in the social scene as your mother, I can’t guarantee he’d be able to fool her.”

Draco laughed aloud. “No flirting required!” Then he sobered, and thought for a moment as to how best to explain it, rehearsing the words he’d already gathered. Yes, they will do. “My mother has a faith in me that my father does not,” he explained. “Lucius is aware of the tension between us, though I’m confident he has no idea what I plan to do about it. My mother isn’t. She thinks I’ll always come around to honoring the family’s wishes and putting my own desires second if at all, no matter how long it takes me. It will be hard to convince her that I’m serious about this, because of her hope. She’ll hang on to her perception of me long past the point where my father has cursed my name and told me to get out of his house. And unless we convince her, she’ll eventually wear Lucius down before I’ve made my own independent name and fortune.”

“Your own independent name and fortune is very important to you,” the Manager noted.

“Oh, yes.” Draco leaned forwards across the table. “My father hates admitting he was wrong. He still won’t admit that he was wrong to get us involved in that stupid war, on the losing side; the farthest he’s gone is to no longer admit he was right quite so loudly. And now he is pressuring me to break off my business because he’s found I deal with people who aren’t pure-blooded.” Draco could feel his lip curl. “He believes I’m his obedient little son, his puppet, Lucius Mark Two. I want to show him that I’m my own man, and then I want him to crawl to my feet, begging me to accept the Malfoy name and inheritance again.”

“You’re his only son,” the Manger said softly. “I know how important that is to pure-blood families. You’re certain he won’t just make his peace with your apparent sexuality in order to retain you as heir?”

“Hates to admit he’s wrong, remember?” Draco shook his head. “And this would mean admitting he was completely wrong about where my interests lay for almost thirty years. Besides, a truly gay son, which he’ll think he has for a while, would be of no use to him as far as perpetuating the Malfoy line goes.”

“So you need someone who can stand up to your mother, the tears and the long waiting she might employ, and someone who can brave your father’s rages,” the Manager said. “Someone almost fearless, in other words.” He smiled a little. “I have the perfect candidate for you, as long as you don’t mind that he was in the equivalent of Gryffindor House at his own school.”

Draco laughed, thinking of a few past lovers. “House is the last thing that matters to me now.”

“Very well.” The Manager concentrated for a moment, then flicked his wand. A file appeared floating in midair beside him. The Manager handed it over with a little bow. “I give you…Brian Montgomery.”

*

Harry felt prickles of excitement running up his chest like Jarvey feet as he extended he folder. Brian Montgomery was a persona he had created soon after the beginning of Metamorphosis and had never dared use, because he was just a little too much like Harry Potter. The last thing Harry could have afforded at that juncture, when people still thought they knew him, was for someone to connect his name and Metamorphosis.

But it was ten years now since most people had seen Harry Potter acting as himself in public. Harry was confident certain impressions had passed off. People would remember him as the hero or not at all.

And Brian Montgomery was no hero.

Malfoy’s eyebrows rose as he read the file. Harry leaned back in his seat, grinning, though in the Manager form that manifested as only a tiny smile. He could have recited the details in his sleep:

Brian Montgomery was a half-blood, son of a Muggle and a witch named Emma Handler who’d run away from home very young to live among Muggles, apparently because of “troubles with her father.” His parents had moved restlessly outside the British Isles and then back, following his father’s work in the developing computer business, but after the age of eleven Brian had stayed firmly ensconced at a very small wizarding school in New Zealand, called the Five Dragons. He’d left with honors in New Zealand’s equivalent of the N.E.W.T.s, specifically in Defense Against the Dark Arts and Transfiguration. Potions had been his worst subject. He didn’t think he was very good at flying, because he could never master certain specific turns.

Having come into a small legacy as a present from a grateful, rich friend whose life he’d saved in their seventh year together, Brian had immediately used it to move back to Britain and absorb the wizarding culture he considered his own despite so many frequent moves. He was a master of manners and pure-blood social culture, of difficult spells, and of most of the subjects taught at Hogwarts. He’d considered being an Auror, but decided regretfully that he wasn’t quite that good with curses.

He’d decided to go on the Muggle stage when his money ran out, and found out he was extremely good at it. (That was actually true; Harry, as Brian, had starred in a few Muggle plays and had people applaud him. He didn’t enjoy it that much, but Brian did, and it was important to build as much experience as possible that would stand up to a fact-check). But he still considered himself a wizard first and foremost, so he hired out as an independent curse-breaker and hex-remover, and did well there, too. He was most proud of his ability to fit in anywhere at a few moments’ notice. His lying ability helped with that, but so did his very good memory for faces and names.

His magical strength was great enough that he was capable of overwhelming the more sensitive wizards he worked with, like Seers. That didn’t bother Brian. He accepted it as a limitation, and set up shields around himself when he had to. He was also very good in bed, but he used that without stint to overwhelm his lovers.

The photograph showed him with messy black hair that was Harry’s and a face that resembled Harry’s in outline, though with just enough features turned slightly different ways to render the resemblance hard to grasp. The lightning bolt scar became a thin red line on his forehead, souvenir of the incident in which he’d saved his friend from drowning and banged his head on a rock. His eyes were brilliant blue and danced mockingly up at the viewer. He conveyed irrepressible energy and buoyant self-confidence, probably too much. He’d written down as his greatest fault that he really needed to learn to shut up and listen more often.

Harry had hesitated to use Brian all these years, but he’d always been proud of his creation and never dreamed of discarding him. And now…

Harry gave the Manager’s small smile again. He knew that expression. On Malfoy, it was less than it was on many of his clients; he had almost perfect control of his face. But his gray eyes widened a little and took on a gentle, dreamy luster, and he had reached out as if to caress the photograph. That he hadn’t completed the gesture didn’t matter.

Hooked. Another victory for Metamorphosis.

*

Draco barely heard the Manager asking him if Montgomery was suitable. He had a hard time tearing his eyes away from that grinning, excited, exciting face. And the biography…God. He was tailored for Draco.

He would have been suspicious if he hadn’t heard before about how good Metamorphosis was. He didn’t care if this man was lying a little in his biography, as long as he could actually practice what he preached.

Draco glanced up with a narrow smile. “He’s perfect,” he said. “And price is no object.” He shrugged. “I can’t say how long I’ll need him. I’d suspect at least a month, maybe two.”

And I definitely can’t say how long I’ll want him.

The Manager nodded. “Then the usual fee is seven hundred Galleons.”

Draco reached for his moneypouch without a blink, now and then casting a glance at the photograph. Montgomery winked at him, casually licked a finger, and smeared it across his lips.

Draco felt himself harden.

Yes. Oh, yes.

*

Harry raised a little eyebrow as he accepted the money. Malfoy hadn’t winced at the price. He must be even more taken than usual.

Well, that’s all right. After all, I’ll provide him with absolutely everything he needs. Harry hid a smile as he watched Malfoy lean back in his seat and stare a little longer. And it’ll be my pleasure to do so.

Chapter 3.