outfit, minus the scarf

Neely pushed a brick of books to her left, her bracelet (a gift from her father) some bossy, heraldic shied of her mission. A slight spy with a now-perfect view of the librarian’s desk, she leaned into the Neely-made cubby of hardbacks and empty shelf space. She tripped a nosy third year who dared pause behind her, with a blindly instinctive tilt of her ankle. The younger Slytherin scampered away, leaving Miss Woolfolk to gaze through the very en vogue window she’d just created. Blindspot jackpot.

She could really use an iced hot cocoa right now, the perfect accessory for a high fash sleeper cell, but unfortunately, if Miss Mr. Morgan’s voice happened to be a few octaves higher (though she was still working on that particular discovery-- genius took time), his wand was bound to be the same House-Point-siphoning, detention-giving bit of the revered Ollivander oeuvre it had always been.

Powder blue spyglass in hand (this time not a gift from her father, but a wand-crafted Wizard luxury nonetheless), she took a quick scope of the scene and zeroed in quite expertly on the darling of Hogwart’s hottest gossip-- for this week, anyway. For a moment all she saw was familiar fair hair, that sharp profile, and an expression remarkably like Erin’s. There were robes, and...

Bathilda Bagshot’s B-Cups, if Neely’s baby blues were not mistaken, the lines of his top spelled a phrase every good little galleon-spending flirt knew: French lingerie.

A scandalized huff (on behalf of Mr. Morgan, thank you very much) escaped the girl’s lips. She lowered the spyglass and furrowed her brows as she stared, now more plainly, in his (her?!) direction. It was true. Mr. Morgan was a woman.

Did he want to be a woman? Didn’t he know how beautiful he was as a man? As a woman, he... well, he looked like he could wear samples straight off the runway, but he wasn't nearly as pretty as a girl as he’d been when he was the older, shiny-haired version of Erin whom Neely secretly sighed over when she was pretending to study for something boring or gross or both. Maybe she should have told him sooner that the dark, princely librarian thing was a good look for him. Now she would have to cross him off her list and... oh golly, Godric, there were no hot teachers left in this effing castle. Even the influx of Europeans and Americans had left them with old, wrinkly, burly, patch-eyed or decidedly female and patch-eyed teachers.  No mature eye candy? And Neely had worked so hard on her O.W.L.s. Now Mr. Morgan was a woman and probably stuck with the same downer prospects. Unless the Potions professor swung both ways.

But... there was the flying horse.

Hmmm...

That was not a coincidence. Whatever had happened to Mr. Morgan, she supposed (now that she was properly studying his face and noted there was no abnormal air of niceness or excitement) it had been some huge, catastrophic Department of Mysteries type scenario, sealed with a tell and die.

Neely began to slip out of her perch, with every intention of casually hurrying back to the Common Room to divulge this news to the VIPs of library land. But. “Ow!” The stupid bookshelf had other plans; its villainous inanimate clutches had captured a bit of her hair (specifically, it was stuck where a crossbeam of wood came down from the shelf above Neely’s cubbyhole). Neely’s face soured, her hands flailed, torn between freeing herself and not wanting to rip her cherished locks. She brought one hand over her mouth, reassuring herself that no one (specifically one person) had heard. Great. This was Hufflepuff-level embarrassing, and it wasn’t even the second week of class.

Thank Merlin it was the very start of school. Trishna would have to teach classes in his unfortunate form, but Landis had an empty library to hide in.

Yesterday, that was. Today word had somehow gotten around; the library wasn't as full as it would be come the middle of the semester, but there were definitely gawkers. A few students hovered at the edges of the stacks and clustered around tables, too eager for gossip to be dissuaded by Landis' diamond stare, too wary to come closer to get a better look. Landis for her part did not make gossip easy; swathed in robes, hair tied back severely, she marked inventory lists at the check-in desk like some distant academical god.

The night before had been difficult. Excused from morning duties to remove a hag from the premises, Landis had taken advantage of the lull in service to disappear to her rooms once she and Trishna had returned from Nadge's hut. But necessity had overruled inconvenience and she'd had to go talk to Juliette, to ask for her help as all her old clothing hung and hampered this slender new form. That had gone predictably. Juliette's fiery French wardrobe had been daunting; her shoes were even worse. Landis had had no choice but to borrow a few horrendously necessary essentials but she drew the line at heels. Now she hid the blouse with its womanly flair under borrowed robes; Juliette luckily had a penchant for simple white shirts, but that didn't stop the fabric from draping in a way Landis found personally offensive. 

It would have to do for now; this afternoon she could slip out and buy something more suitable. The only question was, where? Landis knew very little about women's clothing or her own new size, and she was accustomed to a very high standard of dress. Yet to spend good galleons on something so frivolous as an unexpected sex change was wasteful, especially since Landis wouldn't be needing this clothing for very long. She was debating whether facing Darian's unholy glee was worth the discount clothing she would undoubtedly receive when the sharpest little squeak roused her suspicion. It was quiet as the grave in the library this morning, mostly because Landis had been hexing anyone who dared to even whisper (given the circumstances, she didn't trust whispers). She stalked from behind the desk over to the stacks, wheeling around the first aisle to reveal Neely, splayed on the floor half-under a bookshelf and caught by the hair in the joints of the wood.

Landis blinked, vicious tongue-lashing curtailed. Even for Neely, queen of the theatrical histrionics, this was a somewhat silly position. Her eyes sought out the perfect little peephole fashioned between books and narrowed.

"Go on," she said, arching a pale brow. "I'd like to hear this excuse."

Neely’s mouth fell open, and this time she drew a sharp breath, as if someone had tickled her ribs or a sample sale had been announced while she was in History of Magic. (Not that Neely always bothered with those, but there some discounted pieces that were acceptable even to the spoiled Slytherin. They made for good vintage, at the very least.)

The blonde woman hovering over her was decidedly not Mr. Morgan. And yet... her eyes roamed her (him?!) quickly before landing on her (his...?) face again, as if she’d been caught... again. She swallowed hard, eyes going a little wide, before she offered a beaming smile. It was only nervous for a milisecond, aka it totally wasn’t.

They had the same effing face. Sort of. Like, if Mr. Morgan had a twin who wasn’t as pretty or princely.

Well, that confirmed that.

“I...” She began (it wasn’t a stall! It was a timed ellipses!), and then she looked upward, at her hair caught in the bookshelf. She pouted. Her face went from pearly whites to pillowy frown in an impressive amount of time. Brooms had nothing on her. “Was helping a first year--” Maybe she should have said Salem student? Their brand of English could easily have led to a mistake involving a perpetually missing letter ‘u.’ “He said he needed a book, and I was so nice, Mr. Morgan, really! In heels and everything. I mean, you know what I’m talking about.” She flourished, though... on second, the man (woman!) wasn’t wearing heels. But surely. Who became a girl and didn’t try it? He (she!) couldn’t even be busted for dress code violations! Neely was slightly scandalized by Landis Morgan for the first time in her young crushes-on-aristocratic-librarians life. “I think.” Not. She tried not to sigh in disappointment. Mostly because she was terrified. Instead she blinked, in a moment of wonderfully awkward silence in which they must have both concluded that it was better not to discuss the Head of House’s subpar height enhancements. He was tall, anyway. “And then he did this--” She gestured, wincing as she accidentally tugged at her hair. “And ran away!”

That was one version of the story, anyway.

Neely dropped her arms like a defeated rag doll, letting one land softly behind her back, and made sure she looked properly upset. The more she looked on the verge of tears or (daintily) murdering boys who were actually shorter than her, the more she relaxed. Mr. Morgan wasn’t so scary when Neely needed an ally and protector. He wasn’t scary like ever, to her, except when Neely was breaking rules. But she was preeeetttttyyyyy sure he was soft on her. Who wouldn’t be?

Remembering that she still had her wand, Neely promptly let it fall behind her back. “And I dropped my wand, so I couldn’t get loose.” Obviously she was a competent witch, but no one could perform these delicate hair-sparing charms in a pinch without a wand.

“How was your holiday s- m- ... Head of House?” She tried. With luck, he/she would confirm something. A big something. She might have confirmed it already (Neely had thought as much), but. “Did you spend a lot of time with Professor Trishna?” The pony angle. There was so an explanation!

Landis' brow remained arched in perfect disdain as Neely fumbled her way through her story. Her mistake (one of many) was her appeal to feminine empathy. "No. I do not," Landis said icily just as Neely murmured an uncertain "I think."

“And then he did this-- And ran away! And I dropped my wand, so I couldn’t get loose.”

Neely deflated like a rag doll, arms going loose. She gazed up at her head of house limpidly as though her wet eyes were at a moment's notice ready to dribble and drip. Landis had experienced the effects of the girl's crocodile tears last year (wet lapels, uncomfortable clutching, strange looks from the nearby populace). Curiously, those bright eyes won her less wiggle room than they had the first time around, possibly because even Neely knew better than to try to collapse against Landis' chest this week.

When she spoke, her tone was arch with skepticism. "Are you suggesting that you allowed yourself to be surprised by a first-year? Or would you like a moment to reformulate your answer?"

“How was your holiday s- m- ... Head of House? Did you spend a lot of time with Professor Trishna?”

Such a remarkably clumsy question from a usually self-possessed girl could only be attributed to nerves. Irritated though she was, Landis was somewhat impressed with the potency of her own glare. Of course she knew how very often her mind turned wistfully to more painful and permanent punishments than the taking of house points, but it was so satisfying to see students tripping over themselves as though they knew what Landis was thinking too.

Their survival instincts were well-trained. To see Neely on the ground, nervous and helpless, sent a flash of dark satisfaction through her. Such transparency seemed like weakness. Coupled with the seething mess underneath Landis' control, the shame of this curse, the anger, the memory of visceral adrenaline fed on screams... it wasn't too long after the attack on St. Mungo's, and those memories were fresh. They led to something lazier and more violent that he'd enjoyed unleashing. But that wasn't anything to turn on poor Neely, though; she reminded herself forcibly of that. The girl was a pureblood, after all.

"That was the poorest attempt at subertage I've ever heard. If you wish to know what happened, you have a far better chance of simply asking than lurking behind bookshelves and coating your questions in flimsy pretense." Then the calculated blow:  "I had thought you capable of more finesse, Ms. Woolfolk."

Whoops. Mr. Morgan + Heels = No Go. She would remember it for Arithmancy, except she didn’t need to. Maybe one of her friends taking the N.E.W.T. could use this information. Good Citizen Neely (as if she was just a ‘citizen’) was all about spreading academia. Cute as a baby fish (aka, WAY cuter, because ew), she opened her mouth and promptly closed it again. She swallowed hard. Nodding wasn’t a good idea. That was too obvious. But the look on her face said it all: Yes Mam Sir. It might as well have been a nod.

But if Mr. Morgan wasn’t down with the sky-high stilettos, then why the eff was he a lady? This only confirmed the pony theory in Neely’s head, and the urge to run back to the Common Room and get it all out before burst seemed to double suddenly. Even under the heat of his/her gaze, which was decidedly icy. Alright, maybe the urged had flickered and died.

She lowered her lashes, this time out of sheer fear and panic. Her eyes may or may not have darted this way and that, looking for another excuse despite knowing that it wouldn’t work. She’d have to fess up. No villainous first years or clumsy third years could save her now. It had to be all Neely, which, lucky for Neely, was her favorite Neely.

She looked up again, staring into his (her?) eyes.

“Of course not, M-ister-- Mister,” she quickly caught herself, repeating the word firmly. “Morgan.” The desperation in her voice on the first note gave way to sensibility. “I would never do that. This one was just a freak of nature, but I think I’m mixing him up with someone I unfortunately ran into over the summer. Yes, that’s it. What a long holiday. Traveling is so exhausting,” she said in the same way someone might complain about their abundance of house elves or trust fund. “I would most definitely have been more prepared for the start of term if I didn’t catch a little cold at that party--” Whoops. Better not name names. “I mean, that’s not an excuse, and I don’t plan to repeat it.”

Congratulations, Mr. Morgan. As one of the only people on Planet Neely to ever be in earshot of the planet’s namesake confessing that she had no excuse, Landis Morgan was being marked as Very Important Indeed. Unfortunately, now was probably not a good time to point that out. Humble and all that. Maybe Hufflepuffs weren’t useless. Maybe she would hire one as an acting coach tutor. A one-time deal, naturally-- like wearing a brunette wig to a party.

If she thought her own question might allow her a moment’s reprieve from the librarian’s stare, it didn’t. Once such a handsome pool of intensity, it was now something she had to be more careful about staring into (or, for that matter, avoiding; though Neely was not dumb enough to think that Mr. Morgan’s stare and the act of staring at it wasn’t always a little dangerous-- which was part of Landis Morgan’s appeal). But when she refocused on Mr. Morgan, she realized his eyes were exactly the same, even when he was a she.

Awkward.

Comforting?

Hmmm...

It was like a trick question on a multiple choice test (the effing worst!).

And it quickly evaporated as the librarian accio’d the harsh.

Neely’s face went from dollish-deer to deer-in-the-headlights to crumpling-parchment-fortune-teller and finally to thoroughly sad and defeated, of the Daddy Woolfolk Has a Panic Attack Because It’s So Sad variety.

‘A little harsh, Landis Mr. Morgan’ didn’t do it justice.

Her heart sped up fast, pounded loud.

Had he really just insulted/demolished her finesse cred?! Called her the poorest? Poor and Neely didn’t belong in the same effing owl book, let alone the same sentence. Even that poor she’d got on possibly more than one test once upon a time ago a very minor bit of homework had been buried with extra credit. What was worse, this was Mr. Morgan. Neely had adored him for ages. Did he really think that?

“I am!” She wailed. Wailed-whispered. Loudly. Her arms went up again, but she caught herself mid-breakdown and composed her limbs and features. Painstakingly employing the perfect balance between graceful little toy ballerina and mature, poised young adult, she got to her feet. She adjusted her clothes (wrinkles were not ok. Ever). “I have so much finesse, Mr. Morgan, Gringott’s doesn’t know what to do with it.”

And then, because she was not about to let Poor go to Troll in the finesse department, she did exactly as he (she?) suggested: “Why are you a woman?”