Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling, her publishers, and Warner Brothers own Harry Potter.
"What do you really look like?"
Tonks always hated that question.
It's not what's on the outside, but what's on the inside that counts.
That was the first lesson every metamorphmagus learned. It was also nonsense. That was the second lesson every metamorphmagus learned.
"So, what's your real form?"
They didn't understand. This was the real her. It always was.
Over the years, Tonks had divided people into three basic categories. There were the ones who asked to see her "real form" in an attempt to prove that they care about her for herself, not her abilities. And only after demonstrating how caring and considerate they are would they ask her to turn into their personal Helen of Troy. Then there were the ones who asked in order to prove themselves above such petty things, as if the mere question made them clever or insightful. And, finally, there were the ones too wrapped up in the novelty of her abilities even to think about asking. Most people, she found, fell into that last category.
"Bet you look like Andi," Sirius said suddenly after one Order meeting.
"What?"
"Your mum. You know, when you're not metamorphmagusing. Your real form, I mean." There was a snort from behind her. Tonks turned to see Snape, a sneer evident on his face as he made to leave the room. "What's that, Snivellus?" Sirius snarled.
"This is her real form, you moronic mongrel."
The resulting argument degenerated predictably enough. For the first time, though, Tonks did not find herself on her cousin's side. For the first time, someone understood.
When Tonks wanted pink hair, she made herself someone who was warm and bubbly. When she wanted green eyes, she made herself someone who was jealous. When she wanted wrinkled skin, she made herself someone who was weary. And whatever she made herself into was who she was, right then, right at that moment.
She was always herself, of course. But no one self is always the same. But then, she thought, is that so different from the average witch or wizard? Put sleakeazy in their hair, put them in bright orange robes rather than somber black, put on lipstick and eyeliner. Are they then not their true selves?
Every metamorphmagus understands this. A normal person is subtly different when angry or happy, when alone or surrounded by friends, when at work or at play. A normal person is no more "real" in one situation or another.
It is the same for metamorphmagi. For a metamorphmagus, the image presented to the world is always who they are, right then, in that instant. For a metamorphmagus, asking to see their base form is not like asking them to strip naked. For a metamorphmagus, asking to see their base form is telling them that they are not a real person.
"What are your real loyalties?"
They always asked him that.
"Are you really on our side, Snape? Or are you still a loyal Death Eater?"
Snape was a master occlumens. He had to be, to fool You-Know-Who. Or, if one believed Mad-Eye, to fool Dumbledore. He was certainly fooling at least one, and possibly both.
"Why don't you tell us whose side you're really on?"
There were three types of occlumens. There were the most simplistic, the ones who built shields to throw out intruders. What they lacked in subtlety they made up for in brute force. Then there were the ones who hid their true selves behind masks that they could don or doff at need, supplying false impressions to any casual legilimens. And, finally, there were the true masters, the ones who hid behind neither shield nor mask, the ones who changed themselves rather than their surfaces. The metamorphs of the mind.
"Death Eater or Order member?"
"Yes," Tonks said. "He is."
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