No one sees it. The beauty deep within. They see only the ugly outside. Until changes begin. Morphing the outside. Hair, skin, nose, eyes...

Nothing of the ugly remains except the ever-present clumsiness. Beauty outside threatens to overpower the beauty inside. So some of it has to be let go. A pouty lip here, a button nose there, a silky, golden waterfall of hair. Sacrificed to preserve the beauty inside.

Pink replaces gold. Purple fills the iris like so much slowly poured grape juice. It isn't quite beauty now, but it is, in another way. It's never admitted, never spoken aloud, that beauty remains in such an odd manner. It's too odd, many say, whispering behind hands and eyes following coldly.

Beauty outside slips away, then returns ever so subtly. The beauty inside is showing, now. Glowing, radiating from beneath the skin. People notice, and pay a bit of attention never shown before. A trio of boys watches, elbowing one another. "Go talk to her!" they goad one another. "Go! I dare you to kiss her!" They're left unnoticed, and the dares unfulfilled.

An older man. His outside is scarred, but beauty shines through. Not many see it, but it is seen. So much experimentation with beauty makes it that much easier to see the beauty in others. His beauty is seen. But he won't admit to anything as much as beauty. Instead, he protests it, and the love he feels. The love is seen, too, and this everyone can see. They pull him aside and talk to him: "She loves you, and you love her. So just do something about it already!" He just shakes his head. "I'm too old. Too scarred. Too poor. Too experienced. She deserves someone young. Someone whole." Someone young won't do. Someone 'whole' isn't worth it. Someone rich wouldn't be the same. He's the one, and everyone can see it. He can, too, but refuses to believe it. He feels undeserving, and pushes away.

The pink falls away, now. Hair is a mousy brown. The purple leaks from irises, and brown the color of cola replaces it. Even the soft-white light of a patronus morphs, becoming him—a werewolf. Depression falls, and the beauty inside dims to such a point that it can't shine through. He continues to push away, further and further, and a sickly shade of grey covers everything.

Finally, with an event both traumatic and sweet—the wounding of Bill and Fleur's continued devotion—the tables seem turned. A short shouting match over Bill's bed in the Hogwarts infirmary yields greater love and increased devotion towards him. Yes, he's been rather stupid about the entire thing, but what man wouldn't be? Finally he gives in, and the grey cloud lifts. Color rushes back. Hair turns pink once more, and eyes twinkle merrily in amethyst shades.

Beauty shines through, and in him, too. Inner beauty pours from beneath the skin, glowing with a soft but steady light. Three very simple, little words: "I love you."