//------------------------------//
// Chapter 19 
// Story: The Gate 
// by computerneek 
//------------------------------//

Draco Malfoy leaps awake with all the suddenness of an axe, letting out a startled gasp while he’s at it and springing into a sitting position in his bed.
Someone yelps in fright and falls off his bed in the dim light.  And not off of their own bed; they fell off of Malfoy’s bed.
After taking two deep breaths, Malfoy first checks to be sure his hand is a hand, not a hoof.  It is; that must have been a nightmare.
A nightmare in which his father had disowned him for his hair, then some thugs on the street turned him into a pony again, then- he’s not sure how he ended up in Azkaban, but he did.
He’s in the middle of a third deep breath when the someone that fell off his bed stands back up and speaks up.  “Are you okay?” he asks.
Malfoy looks up at him…  Oh, it’s that kid, Roger Malone, the one that has been sucking up to him in a most un-Slytherin-like manner these last couple weeks.  Not that he’s going to complain; the kid is good at information gathering.  “Yeah,” he mutters.  “Why ask?”
“Well,” Roger begins, wringing his hands nervously.  He does have a nervousness problem; if he didn’t, he might be a great spy as well.  “You were…  ah, twitching, and…  it looked like you were having a nightmare.”
Malfoy shudders at the memory, then shakes his head to clear it.  Something heavy seems to shift against his back- but it’s a familiar weight, as of last night.  His hair.  “Yeah, a nightmare,” he mutters.  “Thanks.”
Roger simply stares.
“What?”
“Your…  Your hair,” Roger finally states.
Malfoy glances back at it, waving gently down his back, just like yesterday.  “What about it?”
“You…  You shook your head, and it…  It straightened…”
He raises an eyebrow, and reaches up to feel it.  Perfectly smooth, just like yesterday.  He tilts his head slightly; isn’t ‘bed hair’ a thing?  He scowls.  “Strange,” he mutters.  Then he looks back at Roger.  “Did it change color again?”
Roger shakes himself back out of his stupor.  “Uh, no, it’s still…  shiny.  Silver.”
He lets himself drop backwards onto his bed again, right on top of the hair in question.  “What time is it?”
“Two in the morning.”
He pulls his blankets back up with his hands, the curtain around his bed closing of its own accord, right in Roger’s face.  “Go back to bed.”  He blinks, glancing sideways at the curtain, before he rolls over and decides to forget about it.  They don’t normally move of their own accord, but for as strange as it is, it’s none of his business.
“Okay,” Roger mutters, before walking over to his own bed.
Malfoy lets out a faint sigh of relief, closing his eyes only briefly.  He’d been afraid, when he went to bed last night, of waking up in the morning to find out that it was all a dream.
He still dreads his father’s reaction to his hair.
He still dreads finding out exactly when he’ll next be turned into a pony against his will.
He still dreads word getting out that he was turned into a filly.  He’d looked up the term Bonbon had used to describe him last night; ‘filly’ is specific to female foals.  Just like he’d guessed at the time, since she’d referred also to ‘colts’- another unknown, turned out to be male- and ‘mares’, something he knew of as female horses.  He’d also looked up the other term she’d used, ‘pony’, to find not much of interest or, apparently, relevance.  He most certainly had not been one of the ponies that book described, even if Bonbon had used the term to describe him.
One hand rises to touch his forehead.  The spot that had tingled the first time he had teleported.
The spot his horn had occupied, when he had been a pony.
As much as he dreads his father’s reaction, being transformed against his will, and everyone else finding out, he actually liked how he’d looked as a pony.  Sure, he’d been a filly, and that’s undoubtedly going to take time to get used to- but he’d been…  beautiful.  The way his mane had hung down from his neck, and around his horn.  The way his mane- and his fur- glistened.
Not to mention, he didn’t have to deal with the pains that are clothes.  He’d found out, before Bonbon had appeared, that his privates are invisible as a pony.  And she’d been completely unworried about his unclothed status, as a pony.  And, of course, whatever was doing the transformation took care of his clothes for him, too!
Except for the increased chances of being found out and his father’s potential reaction, he actually likes that his hair stayed around.  It feels so much, well, nicer, than the stubby short hair he had before.  And it looks nicer than that flesh-toned, sandpaper-consistency stuff he called hair before.
He reaches one hand back, to pull it overtop his neck and to his front, savoring its silky smoothness.  And perfectly neat cohesion, despite not having been brushed.  The two navy stripes are clearly visible, and still clearly defined!
During the early years of his youth, he remembers being taken to Saint Mungo’s a few times because his scalp was bleeding.  His hair had caught on the flesh, and torn it open as it grew.  After the third or fourth visit, though it might have been closer to the twentieth, the healers had a new spell to put on his head.  He’d had to go back to renew it every six months, and trim himself to within a half an inch of bald every week, but that spell had prevented his hair from grinding away at his own skin.  It didn’t stop it from grinding every hat he ever owned, every shirt he ever pulled over his head, every pillow he ever used.
That’s why he has two Hogwarts caps, both spelled to resist it, and way more shirts in his trunk than pants.  When one of his caps wears out, he’ll switch to the other- and order a fresh one from home.  He already did that once on Sunday; his current cap is bad enough he might as well do it again.  The only reason he hadn’t packed enough of them to last the year, as the enchantments simply couldn’t last forever, is because they’re much larger- and can’t be folded up nice and small.  Besides, his magically expanded trunk was already packed tight with shirts.  Shirts for which spells like that would be useless; even the longest-lasting one wouldn’t last long enough, or be effective enough, to extend the shirts’ lifespans by more than a couple hours.
Then, there’s the spell matrix.  He still remembers it, perfectly clear.  He rolls onto his back, letting the silken weight of his hair splash across his chest, and pictures the matrix in the air above him.
His breath catches as, just like had happened for a moment last night, it appears in the air, right where he pictured it, glowing faintly blue.  That tingling is back, as well- in his right arm, the same place it’d been each other time he’d teleported.
He lets it disappear again, this time making a point of light appear above him.  He can feel the matrix of both spells, flowing through his arm and into the air, just like he felt the matrix from the shockwave that broomstick produced when Bonbon smashed it.  He can’t quite define any of those matrices; the feeling is different, almost…
He focuses once again on the teleportation matrix, and what it felt like each time he used it.  Yes, he felt that one too, each time- but it doesn’t feel like the matrix he knows, it feels…  different.  Must be the difference between feeling it and creating it- like the difference between getting punched…  and punching.
He stares at the ceiling, the soft white light in front of him vanishing into nothing.  He remembers, after returning to flying lessons, feeling the spell allowing the broom to fly.  It felt even more complex than the teleportation spell.
Of course, he’d sent his father a letter before he went to bed.  A week and a half ago, he’d told his father all about all the strange Equestrians filling the school, and what they’d done at the sorting ceremony.  His father had been of half a mind to come straight back to the school to remove him from it, upon hearing that Princess Luna- the one that had thrown him down as if he was nothing- was a Slytherin.  He’d been able to calm that fear by telling him about Luna.  He’d met her, talked to her.  She hadn’t connected him to that clash in the Leaky Cauldron; she’d asked him politely to not call her a Princess, because she’s ‘on vacation’ from that.  She hadn’t made any effort to hide her power, but she also hadn’t thrown it around- he’d had a good conversation.
He’d written to his father about each of his classes, immediately after the first of each; they were all taught by Equestrians.  It had been explained in his very first class that it had been an arrangement made with the staff in order to allow the teachers to teach the entire student body, thanks to the number of first-years this year; some of the best and brightest minds had been tapped to study directly under the teachers, including on their own, and follow up by teaching the rest of the first-year body.  Any questions were to be directed to them; if they could not answer definitely, they’d ask the professor at their next opportunity, and deliver the answer as quickly as possible.
His father had been horrified that Lyra was teaching him Potions instead of Snape.  It was lucky she had clearly favored Slytherin; she hadn’t taken a single point all class, yes, but she’d given Slytherin fifteen- and he got ten of them directly.  Without that, and the fact that her co-teacher was a Slytherin as well, his father would have come to take him home.
He’d raised his eyebrows at the news that his flying classes, and those alone, would be with the school-designated instructor, rather than an Equestrian; he’d asked Luna and, surprisingly, she’d known.  Flying lessons are taught that way because that’s how Madam Hooch requested it.
His father’s letter yesterday morning had conveyed his father’s surprise at the same, though he’d also explained why:  Second-years and above don’t have flying lessons, leaving Madam Hooch free except for the first-years and quidditch games.  Plus, flying lessons are usually over in a matter of weeks anyways; she’d probably requested it that way in order to have something to do before Quidditch season.
And last night, before he went to bed, he’d sent his father a letter.  This one talks of the helicopter stunt, and the Equestrians getting yelled at for it; the strange ‘spoonata’ Bonbon had mentioned and helped him stop, and the Equestrian responsible getting yelled at by the Ministry itself; and, of course, the flying lesson.
He hadn’t mentioned that he hadn’t been supposed to be flying.
He’d made it sound like Madam Hooch had gotten back to the class and coaxed them all into the air before the helicopter had shown up.  Then of course, he’d made it sound like he’d fallen off his broom when the ‘prank’ had activated, not out of shock from the helicopter.
And of course, he’d made it sound like a prank.  He’d made it sound like he’d been turned into a colt instead, and that Bonbon had instantly seen his efforts to get away from the other squealing girls and helped him hide until that wore off, subverting the rest of their prank.  He’d made it sound like getting swarmed by squealing girls was supposed to be part of the prank.
He had mentioned that, when the transformation wore off, he found out that it seemed to have reacted to the family curse- the one that made his hair so sandpapery.  His father had had that problem in his youth as well, all the way until he turned twenty.  He mentioned that that reaction had seemed to modify the curse, eliminating the sandpaper problem and instead making his hair waist length, funny colored, and silky smooth, aside from making it grow very quickly if he tried cutting it.
He had stated he wasn’t sure if that modification to the curse was permanent…  or temporary.  Even though, according to Bonbon, the hair is permanent.
He really hopes that curse has been broken.  He does not look forward to having an effectively cut-proof, three foot, hanging grinder attached to the back of his head.  That’d probably be deadly; perhaps he’ll ask Bonbon about it sometime.
He hadn’t mentioned that it looks like a girl’s hair, not simply long like his father’s.
He hadn’t mentioned that the transformation might happen again, because it had actually been permanent.
He hadn’t mentioned that he had teleported, or even that he knows how.
He prays his father doesn’t choose to take him out of school.
…  If his father does decide he wants to do that, he decides, he’ll teleport away.  No doubt that, once his father finds out he’s learned to do that ‘by studying with the Equestrians’, he’ll leave him here.
Speaking of which, he’ll have to ask Bonbon about why everything flashes blue when he teleports.  Why not green, or silver?  Why flash at all?  He knows apparition doesn’t flash at all, despite being torturous, and the visual transition of the same is just about instantaneous.
Finally, he glances sideways, at the curtains.  They had…  moved by themselves earlier.  Yet, that had felt normal- so normal, in fact, it would have been weird had they not violated their normal motion patterns in such manner.  He concentrates for a second on the memory, and identifies something he hadn’t noticed at the time.
His right arm had tingled as it did that.
He pushes his sheets down with his hands, then lays them down on his hair, staring down at his sheets.  He focuses on them, pulls on them with his mind.  It’s only when he tries casually moving them with his mind, as if using a third arm, that they glow blue and rise back up over him, covering his freshly tingling right arm.

Though, he couldn’t really call it glow blue.  It’s more of a confined blue aura wrapped around the part he’s pulling on.  And, it’s a deep, navy blue, just like the stripes in his hair- not the kind of color that glows very much.
He’ll have to ask Bonbon about that later.  Wandless, incantationless magic is normally either accidental or something that requires a huge amount of study to master, but this is neither of the above.