Chapter One: Changed

-

He felt the weight of the cloak suffocating him before he realized he was awake. Instantly he became aware of the various cricks in the muscles of his back and in his neck, the result of falling asleep in his chair, hunched over a forbidden book. His glasses seemed to have become permanently embedded in his face, pushed up against his eyes in his sleep.

He muttered a curse under his breath and sat up groggily, remembering to evaluate his surroundings before ripping the Invisibility Cloak off his head. His indomitable raven black hair sprung up, released, and his lungs filled with the cool, stale night air of the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library.

Harry removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, fragmented thoughts and images still drifting through his head after his impromptu nap. He was exhausted, the result of several nights of missing sleep while he poured over the ancient books. He realized this would have been much simpler if he’d had Hermione's or even Ron's help. It was so hard to have to block them out, to know that he'd have to do everything without them for the first time since they'd come into his life. But he must, for their sake. And he would.

Harry stretched, feeling his muscles ripple and unclench, and let out a relieved grunt. He drew in a deep breath, and for a moment there was silence in him. And then, something else.

What was that nagging him, like a tug on the back of his head? Underneath the physical and mental wear there was something he realized he was neglecting. Something had happened, something he should be aware of... Yes, there it was: a feeling of excitement, of something important.

And now he remembered.

Fingers still cramped and tingling, Harry quickly scanned along the page he'd been reading before falling asleep. His heart palpitated quickly, feverishly, as his eyes fastened on the words he had been in search of for days.

It was a draught, and it was surprisingly simple.

This would change everything. It had to.

"Memoria," he murmured, quickly running the tip of his wand over the potion's ingredients and preparation instructions.

Inevitably, he thought of Hermione, who had developed the quick copy spell out of practicality and had later regretted her creation once she saw the various uses Harry and Ron had for it.

Hermione and Ron. The Weasleys.

He saw their faces and felt a tightness in his chest, not unlike the feeling of being prodded with the tip of a broomstick.

This had to work.

He was finished here, and now he must return all books to their original places in the shelves, erasing all evidence of his presence. He would next visit Hermione's supply closet in the third floor to gather the necessary ingredients; all but one - the human element - which would not be acquired so simply.

In fact it would be days before he finally managed to collect it.

He would work well into the night, and when at last he collapsed into his bed, fully clothed as in previous nights, he would immediately succumb to sleep but not to rest, his mind plagued by uneasy dreams.

OOO
 

 

The sun shone through the bright green canopy of leaves, its rays bouncing off the smooth surface of the lake and shining down her back at that precise angle that made her fierce red hair glow as if it were fire. He glanced at the tresses wonderingly, resisting the urge to reach up and thread his fingers in them. He wondered if her hair would be as soft as he imagined it to be, like silk through his fingers.

She spoke his name, and he pretended to ignore the pang in his chest, a tiny flower of pain blooming somewhere deep within him. His eyes flicked back up to hers, pools of liquid amber, as he schooled his features into simple askance.

"Yes?"

"When you...I mean..." She paused, and his heart caught at what she might say. "Is everything alright with us?" she asked finally.

"What can you mean?" he asked, genuinely intrigued.

Their eyes remained latched onto each other, and that single moment seemed to stretch on to infinity.

"Nothing," she murmured finally, looking away.

But he had noticed the hint of red in her cheeks. His hand ached to touch her so much that his fingers actually contracted where they lay inches away from hers. He ached to feel her skin against his, but he remained unmoving.

She stared at the surface of the water, and he stared at her.

 

OOO

 

Draco Malfoy awoke from a bizarre dream. His mind was still drifting through the haze of phantom images, and when he opened his eyes he experienced a brief sense of disorientation.

He struggled to remember what had happened this time, but already the scraps of images and sounds, words and feelings that had been so blindingly intense mere moments ago were vanishing in the light of the sun. All that remained was the strange, uncomfortable feeling of dissociation from himself. As if he were someone else.

It was the third night in a row he'd had such dreams, and he was beginning to become irritated with himself for what he deemed adolescent behavior.

He closed his eyes against the glare of the sun, then turned away until he was facing the blood red velvet of the curtains, which remained undrawn at the foot of his bed. He could hear a persistent snoring in the distance, like the sound of an old engine.

I must be dreaming still, he decided, stretching his back lazily and giving a quick, silent yawn.

Red curtains in my room... He almost scoffed, but the pain behind his eyes made him want to lay very still.

He knew that lately he'd been smoking too much, drinking too much, shagging too much and sleeping too little, but he hadn't realized just how hungry his body was for sleep until this very instant. He rubbed his eyes hesitantly – ouch – and opened them again, letting his eyelids flutter experimentally.

There they were – red curtains. Unmoving, unchanging. Blood red.

Draco blinked.

He stirred, sat up and looked around the completely unfamiliar lay out of his surroundings. The room continued to refuse to change into what it should be, though he was certain that he was by now wide awake. Fuzzy, but awake.

He blinked again.

There were other beds here. There were other people. And everything, from the curtains, to the rug, to his own bed sheets, was done in bright red and gold, together almost triumphant in their gaudy splendor.

And what on earth was he wearing, he thought in alarm, clawing at the front of his chest. A Canon's shirt over worn navy blue jeans he didn't even own.

He inhaled sharply, his breath hitching, a curse unuttered as he looked around in disbelief.

This had to be some kind of joke – yes, that was it.

That bastard Zabini, Draco thought with a strange feeling of relief. I wonder how he managed this.

Clearly that little prick had somehow transported Draco into the heart of the Gryffindor boys' dorms during his sleep – Yes, that was it, and not something more ominous. That was the only explanation for the tackiness of the décor and the presence of the sleeping forms of Longbottom and a snoring Finnigan, whose beds were arranged not too far away from the one he occupied.

Draco shook his head in reluctant admiration, wondering how he would ever manage to get back at Blaise for this. This – this topped everything.

Now alert and recuperating from his initial shock, the Malfoy heir concentrated on thinking of ways he could conceivably make it out of this in one piece.

Rising to his feet, Draco tried his best to ignore the pounding in his head and the blurring of his vision as he crept cautiously towards the half-opened trunk at the foot of the bed. Casting the other occupants of the room a sidelong glance – or glare, in Finnigan's case – he quietly searched for a hood or something he could alter to cover his gleaming white-blond hair with. That hair in the lair of Gryffindor would attract more attention than Hagrid sipping Earl Gray at one of Narcissa's Saturday afternoon high tea gatherings.

Questionable fashion choices abounded within the trunk, however, he found no hoods. Curling his lip in distaste, Draco let a maroon wool sweater with a giant H sewn on the chest drop to the floor.

He decided the best he could do was transfigure a black sweater that looked like it could be promising.

Reaching for his wand, he was surprised to find not his own familiar 10" hawthorne wood with core of unicorn hair stashed under the band of his jeans, but a strange wand that was seemingly made of a lighter type of wood, possibly holly. He stared at it wonderingly. How could Blaise have possibly –

"Morning," Longbottom murmured from his bed, glancing up at Draco disinterestedly. He then proceeded to open his mouth and yawn widely, throwing his head back in the process.

Draco's eyes widened a few millimeters, but the rest of his body remained frozen. He stood stark still, as if by not moving he could avoid attracting Longbottom's attention.

But he looked straight at me! he mused, staring at the still yawning boy in amazement.

And then his eyes met the bright green ones that stared back at him from the mirror on Longbottom's wall.

"Potter!" he whispered, holding up his wand reflexively.

Indeed, Harry freaking Potter stared back at him from the mirror—the mirror!—jet black hair sticking up crazily, wand in hand, bloodshot eyes narrowed fiercely in a way Draco had never seen before.

"Harry! What are you doing?" Longbottom demanded laughingly, observing as Draco pointed his wand at his own reflection in the mirror.

Draco continued to stare at the mirror, and the expression on Potter's face slowly became a mask of horror, bright green eyes now round with shock.

"Crap," Potter's lips murmured, just as the door swung open and a very angry Ronald Weasley barged into the room.

OOO

 

He awoke on his side and automatically reached for his glasses, which were resting by the right upper corner of his pillow. His fingers searched blindly, found nothing.

He sighed.

Flipping on his back, he opened his eyes and blinked. He was surprised to find himself looking up into a dark green canopy, and even more surprised when he turned on his side again and found himself looking at a woman's bare back, the sharply defined curve of her side fighting for his attention as much as the unblemished expanse of bare, pale skin did. Rivulets of dark curls cascaded down to the mattress under her, and Harry could do nothing but stare in amazement.

She stirred in her sleep and turned to face him, and Harry's eyes widened when he confirmed that she was, in fact, a girl in his year – Daphne Greengrass, his mind supplied – and she was, in fact, completely and gloriously naked. A moment later her green eyes flipped open and came into focus, and she immediately sat up, staring back at Harry with the expression of a whipped puppy.

"What are you doing here?" he blurted, struggling to keep his eyes on her face, his hands attempting to disguise the massive tent he was pitching underneath the green silk of the sheets.

"I'm so sorry! Please don't be angry... I know you said I had to leave, but...it's just...you looked so beautiful asleep," she mumbled, blushing pitifully, and Harry's eyebrows knit in confusion at her words, at her demeanor, at her continued nakedness.

"What did I say?" he inquired slowly.

A sound like a whimper escaped from her throat, and she looked down at her hands. "That you didn't like sleep-overs," she whispered softly.

Harry stared. Part of him wondered what on earth was going on, while some other part of him was attempting to reconcile this creature with his image of the Greengrass girl. He had come across her in the hallways with Pansy Parkinson quite a few times, registered her as one of the prettier Slytherin girls, enveloped in the same varnish of superiority and indifference that all of them displayed by default. Never would he have pictured this submissive, child-like display of – fear? – as something to be associated with her. With any Slytherin. What was going on?

Why is she naked?

"I said that?" he said quietly, more to fill the silence than anything. What was wrong with his voice? He resisted the urge to clear his throat.

To his surprise, Daphne Greengrass winced and scurried out of the bed, gathering an armful of clothes and disappearing behind one of the doors in the large room they were in. Harry followed her with his eyes in silence, half-dreading her return.

When she emerged from the same door some time later, something in Harry had changed, a connection had been made in his mind, a memory emerged from the fog of his confusion.

He was not surprised to see her fully clothed in her Slytherin uniform, robes and all.

"I'm sorry," she murmured again, looking at his face but not meeting his eyes.

Harry didn't reply. He merely lay there, his eyes closed as he listened to the soft click of the door latch as she exited the room.

Yes, connections had been made. He now understood why the canopy was green, why his skin was so pale, his voice so deep. Why there had been such apprehension in the girl's eyes.

Even so, he still reeled from shock when he met the face that awaited him in the mirror.

 

 -

 

Chapter Two: Unnerved

-

 

Draco Malfoy hid.

He was in Harry Potter's body, amongst the people who presumably knew Harry Potter best – his bloody roommates in the bloody Gryffindor dorm. Upon being confronted by a very angry Ronald Weasley – Where in blazes have you been? the red-haired boy had demanded hotly, sounding remarkably like an irate housewife – the Slytherin had opted for the only sensible thing to do: surrender his spot.

"I – I, uh... Exhausted..." he had mumbled incoherently, shocked at hearing Potter's voice, thick from sleep and true exhaustion, coming from his own throat.

Taking two steps back he had stumbled into Potter's bed, not meeting any of the eyes that were on him. An automatic flick of the unknown wand had drawn the scarlet drapes around the bed, mercifully shielding him from view.

He doesn't know it's me - they don't know it's me! Weasley and Longbottom think I'm Potter. But HOW-

Despite the roar of his own frazzled thoughts bouncing around in his head, Draco could distinctly hear the Weasley boy's exasperated sigh on the other side of the curtain, and the way Finnigan continued to snore like a Muggle engine on its last throes.

The relief he'd felt at knowing he hadn't been discovered vanished as the sheer reality of the situation began to sink in; this was really happening. What was worse, he had no idea why or how to fix it.

"Harry," Weasel whispered insistently, sticking his brightly colored head in between the curtains. He brought his face so close that the Slytherin felt he could count every single freckle. "Where have you been – What's going on? Why won't you let us help?"

Draco closed his eyes.

Maybe if I just lay here he'll leave, he thought fervently.

And then he felt the mattress sink under the weight of another body. His eyes flipped open.

Ha! I KNEW it! part of him snarled triumphantly, while the rest of him cringed at the prospect of the homoerotic moment that would no doubt follow. He lay there tensely, ready to jump out of bed if need be.

If he kisses me, he's done for, Draco promised.

But what Weasley said next made him slowly relax.

"Hermione and I have been worried sick! You've been acting so strange lately...Harry, you're up to something, we know it. And where have you been sleeping, anyway? You look like shite, mate... We've been looking all over for you. Hermione got caught out of bed by Snape and now she has two detentions with him...we lost more points..."

Closing his eyes, Draco processed the flood of information, too tired and too unnerved to rejoice at that last part.

If Potter was being weird that gave him some room to maneuver; at least until he could find a way to get out. The main thing was not to get discovered.

He was surprised at his own clarity of mind, at his calmness. His body – Potter's body, he corrected himself – was depleted, but he felt more alert than he'd ever been in his entire life.

Merlin's balls, Finnigan snores like an old cow, some part of him observed with a flicker of irritation. Weasley, get on with it...

"Harry, what's going on? You keep saying you can't tell us, but we can help – whatever it is. It's like you don't even trust us anymore..."

Yes, yes... Do you have any theories?

"You've been acting so strangely since Dumbledore left...I think it must be something he told you...something about V-Voldemort?" The redhead stumbled on the dreaded name and Draco winced at hearing it spoken out loud.

He waited, but Weasley added nothing more.

The silence stretched on between them, and the Slytherin realized it was up to him to put an end to the conversation.

"I'm... sorry," he said at last, staring fixedly at the ceiling. "I really can't tell you anything now...you'll just have to trust me on this."

"But Harry –"

" – And now I'm afraid I'll need to be excused," Draco cut in, turning on his side, "I am dreadfully exhausted..."

He could feel Weasley's surprised stare on the back of his head. He'd just experienced the Narcissa Malfoy dismissal, and it never failed.

Draco remained silent, stubbornly entrenched in Potter's bed until the red-haired boy gave up and left. There he lay, drifting in and out of a deep, exhausted sleep, until he could no longer hear any sounds in the room, until even the lazy Irish wanker, Finnigan, had finally gotten up and joined the others in search of breakfast.

It was then that Draco emerged, cautiously, one foot at a time, feeling like the last human being left on the face of the Earth after some catastrophe of nuclear - nay, apocalyptic - proportions.

What in Salazar's name had happened, he wondered for the hundredth time, patting himself all over with disbelieving hands.

He faced Longbottom's mirror again, his hand automatically going to the lightning bolt-shaped scar that branded the high forehead. It was surprisingly smooth.

Okay - What was the big deal?

Draco scoffed in spite of himself.

(And here it must be said, for it is indeed true, that Draco did pause a moment to slip a calloused hand under the band of his jeans, groping about with some interest. His hand secured around its target, and he snorted. Well that explains a lot...)

More interesting to him were the twin scars on the backs of Potter's hands that read, if one squinted at them enough: 'I must not tell lies' on the left hand and 'I will not break rules' on the right.

He flexed the short fingers, spreading the hands and staring at them for some moments. Then he met the bright green eyes of Potter in the mirror, making a cursory inspection of the admittedly handsome, if unexceptional, features.

He was in truly deep troll dung.

For, he realized, this was not his own body disguised as Potter's by means of potions and charms. Part of him had understood from the beginning that he was indeed occupying Potter's body – HOW? Why? Who could have possibly – HOW? Where was Potter now? Where was his own body?

Tearing his eyes away from the awful reflection in the mirror, Draco ran his hands through the thick, unruly hair that now crowned his head. His heart accelerated almost painfully – he could almost feel it fluttering in his throat – but he refused to panic.

He was, like in all else, completely on his own in this predicament, he knew. It was up to him to make sense of this and fix it; he mustn't panic and he mustn't be rash.

Looking around the room, he decided to begin by doing the most obvious thing: the Slytherin made a thorough search of all the contents of the trunk at the foot of the bed and the cabinet by its side. Few things were particularly interesting; if his belongings were anything to go by, for a person so celebrated and discussed Harry Potter was surprisingly boring.

Of note was a blank piece of parchment found under the thick mattress. Draco examined it carefully, convinced it was magical in some way.

"Specialis Revelio," he murmured, waving his wand over it.

He watched, mystified, as ink lines appeared over the previously smooth parchment. Words formed, but Draco had to push the parchment nearly up to his nose in order to make them out – his eyes seemed to be still blurry.

He nearly toppled over in shock when he was at last able to read what had appeared.

Nice try, little dragon. Now run along to your dungeon.

Draco swore under his breath as the words disappeared, fading as if they'd never been there at all. The parchment knew him, knew he was Draco, even in Potter's body.

What in Salazar's name was this?

He'd have to find out later. Pocketing the rolled up parchment, Draco looked around the room one last time. No stone had been left unturned, so to speak, but he'd learned nothing. Certain people would kill to be in his position, but they'd be disappointed to find that there were no letters, no diaries, no dirty secrets – nothing really personal to be found here.

As he exited Harry Potter's room still very much in possession of Harry Potter's body, Draco Malfoy took notice of all the things that as the son of a prominent Death Eater were his duty and he was neglecting to do. He turned these things around in his mind, contemplating them in exactly the same way an old lady examines fruit at a market that she knows she has no intention of buying.

Maybe this was all a big test... In that case he was determined to fail resoundingly; it occurred to him that if he had been singled out, perhaps this was why. If someone had detected this in him then his character was more flawed than even Lucius suspected.

How like your mother.

The thought caused a tiny hurt, like an ant bite might. He let it lie still in his mind, refusing to prod it further, concentrating instead on another angle; no use being paranoid.

As things were, something like this could only serve to lessen his family's already precarious standing within the ranks of Voldemort. No one could ever know that this had happened to him, and that was as much his goal as recovering his own body.

Squaring his shoulders, Draco gave Potter's face one last glance as he exited the room.

OOO

Unlike the – appropriately – serpentine maze that was Slytherin, Gryffindor's lay out was straightforward enough and thus easy to navigate. Following the only corridor to its end led Draco to what was obviously the common room: a large and well lit room full of average quality furniture and done in – what else? – red and gold.

There was one person here, female, from what Draco could distinguish, sitting at a desk by one of the fireplaces, quill in hand. An assortment of books and a wide piece of parchment was laid out before her. He was unable to make out her features until he walked by her, at which time he realized that she was staring straight up at him.

And you are...?

Draco paused; he nearly had to press his face up to hers in order to get a good look – what was wrong with his eyes, for Merlin's sake?

Her large, amber brown eyes were eyes fixed on his face curiously in turn, but she remained unmoving as he inspected her, their faces inches apart.

Her hair was of a vibrant auburn shade, hanging loosely in unbroken waves down to her waist. She had a pretty, distinctive sort of face, dusted by freckles and dominated by large eyes and plump lips. She was staring at him so intensely that he wondered if he'd have to fend off the sexual advances of a Weasley, after all.

This time the prospect was not so unpleasant, for this was obviously girl Weaseley; the one with the fine rack and killer curves, the one with the mean Grip Roll, the one with the hand-me-downs (from whom, exactly if she was the only girl?) – in short, the one known as 'Ginny', or something equally inane... (Oh, who was he kidding? He knew perfectly well what her name was.)

All things considered, if one had to be assaulted by a Weasley, this would be the one you'd want, for sure.

They continued to stare at each other in silence for some moments, until finally she blinked.

"Harry...What are you doing?" she inquired calmly, their faces so close together that he could feel her warm breath on his face. "And where are your glasses?"

Glasses?

Draco mentally kicked himself. No wonder everything was so blurry; Potter was blind as a fucking bat.

"Accio, glasses!" he muttered, extending his hand.

The Weasley girl's fine eyebrows arched slightly but she made no comment as Draco caught the hideous things in his hand, hesitating briefly before putting them on. He felt like a complete wanker, but his vision instantly improved.

"Thanks," he said absently, pocketing Potter's wand. Giving an awkward and hopefully Potter-like wave, he turned towards the nearest exit.

This time the Weasley girl's eyebrows shot all the way up unchecked, but Draco's back was to her and he missed it. He was, however, in prime position to catch the hysterical giggling of the two girls coming down the stairs he'd been about to mount in the assumption of reaching ground level.

"Harry!" one of them – Padma Patil's twin, in fact – exclaimed, reproval and elation unmistakable in her voice. "Did you lose something up in the girls' dorm?"

They erupted into simultaneous peals of laughter once again, and Draco, now aware of the redheaded girl's eyes burning into his back, resolved to remain nonchalant.

"You know, I've always been curious..." he said, glancing in the direction of the stairs and turning to give them a small wink. "I was hoping one of you ladies might be willing to show me around."

"Harry Potter!" Lavender Brown squealed, flushing with pleasure and perhaps true abashment. They burst into giggles once again, and Draco stepped aside to let them pass, inclining his head slightly.

The girls went off arm in arm, whispering to each other and turning to shoot what could only be described as simultaneously calculating and embarrassed looks in his direction. Draco observed covertly as they exited through the back of a portrait frame hanging on the opposite wall. Aha.

"Harry! You're back!...And what in Merlin's name was that about?" demanded a female voice from behind him.

Draco turned to find the always anxious-looking Hermione Granger, arms full of books and shock written all over her features.

Great. Her.

What was her problem?

As far as he knew, Granger and Weasel were some kind of an item, so it wasn't like she had any actual claim on Potter. And yet here she was, glaring at Draco, the fact that she condemned his actions plain as day. Even Weasley was glaring at him. Jeez, what was wrong with these women?

"You've been acting so strangely lately, Harry, I swear..." Granger was saying.

"Listen,Gr – her...Her-mione! Her-mione," he said quickly, managing to stumble both times on the name, "it's not like I'm marrying those skanks or something, I was was just trying to be nice."

Granger and Weasley stared at him, their mouths all but hanging open.

Right.

Draco decided that this meeting had gone on long enough. "Well... I'm starving. Later, witches." He made to walk in the direction of the portrait, but Granger's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Harry, calm down. We're all starving. I've been in the library since this morning and haven't had a chance to – "

Draco, who hated being told to "calm down" when he was calm already, felt a flicker of irritation as the girl went on to describe her morning's itinerary. He tuned out the annoying bint.

He had a sense of urgency, a need to get out of Gryffindor territory. And did this Mudblood seriously expect him to hang out with her while he was stuck here?

" – and then Professor Snape gave me double detention, which I deserve, seeing as I was out of bed at an inappropriate time, but I – "

"– Well if we're all starving, how about we run along then?" Draco cut in impatiently.

The girls exchanged looks before looking back at him. More than Granger's obvious surprise, the intent way the Weasley girl's eyes were fixed on him made him feel unnerved.

Was there something distinctly un-Potter-like in the things he'd said? Draco realized he'd have to pay more attention to these small interactions. So far he'd been earning himself a lot of odd looks from the women. Perhaps he should...calm down.

OOO

Several people greeted "Harry" as they made their way to the Great Hall, and Draco managed to not roll his eyes at their obvious sucking up. He had to admit he'd had no idea Potter was so popular.

The Gryffindor girls walked beside him, not engaging in any type of chatter amongst themselves. Draco, who was used to the Slytherin girls' incessant babbling when in confidence, found this odd. Maybe they weren't close?

"Where have you been, anyway?" Granger asked him in hushed tones. She turned her body as if she intended for the Weasley girl not to hear, though the girl in question was walking right beside them.

"I can't tell you," Draco murmured, his eyes wandering from face to face. He wasn't sure what exactly he was looking for, but he felt nervous, expectant.

They arrived at the Gryffindor table and he seated himself at what he knew was Potter's usual place, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. It was unnerving to not sit at his own table, at his own place. This whole thing was exactly that: unnerving.

Draco scanned the Slytherin table from where he sat, but no one important was there.

"Have some cantaloupe," Granger said from beside him, holding out a platter.

"I hate that," he said automatically, wrinkling his nose against the particular odor; no amount of good breeding could keep him from expressing his various degrees of disdain towards certain foods. He was, in a word, picky.

"What? Since when?" Granger said, laughing her annoying little laugh. "You love cantaloupe! It's your favorite..."

Draco stared at the pale, unappetizing fruit. The smell of it always made him faintly nauseous.

"It's very fresh," she continued, spearing a few pieces and dumping them on his plate.

"Merlin's pants, woman. Keep to your own plate, will you?" he snapped, scanning the Slytherin table once more.

"Harry, you need to eat," Granger said with finality, ignoring his request and serving him more cantaloupe. "You're so cranky lately..."

"Yeah, Harry," the Weasley girl interjected, spoon in hand, "are you on your period again?"

"Really, Ginny!" Granger snorted.

Draco glared at the pretty redhead, who was sitting on the other side of Granger. Her spoon hung in mid-air and again her brown eyes were on his, questioning.

He automatically thought of a dozen different comebacks, all of which involved comments on her hair, her family name, her poverty and her lack of class – all of which would have immediately denounced him for what he was. He held his tongue.

Pretending to ignore her once again – which was completely consistent with Potter's behavior, he thought darkly – Draco turned back to the Slytherin table.

He couldn't have explained why, but all the while he was half dreading the moment when he would see himself come in and take his place at the table – he hadn't allowed the thought to take proper shape in his mind, but the fear of it was there, pulsing underneath the surface of his consciousness.

And finally it happened... There it was; his body. Tall, lean, impeccably dressed in gray slacks and a black turtleneck jumper. His white-blond hair was sleeked back away from his face. His fine, handsome features were arranged into an expression of indifference, and his movements were poised; he carried himself with a careless sort of grace.

Several thoughts surfaced in Draco's mind – the first, the more prominent, was the instant understanding of something he had somehow known all along; that was Harry Potter there, in a Draco suit. Somehow they had been exchanged.

Beneath that shocking certainty was the sudden realization of how much he resembled Lucius. His face, young and angular, was softened by Narcissa's contribution, which was evident in the large eyes and the full, shapely lips; soft, pleasing shapes in an otherwise sharply defined profile.

All that remained was a blueprint of Lucius Malfoy, as if he'd been commissioned to be a miniature scale rendition of the man, only to fully develop into him later. He was of a lighter build than his father, but there was something about the elegant, broad shoulders that hinted that perhaps in time he would become well muscled and imposing in the same way his father was now.

Was this what he really looked like to others, he wondered? Was this really him?

He was certainly very handsome – he'd been made conscious of that fact long ago. But he also looked like a bloody prick, arrogance clear in every gesture, every movement. He had not decided to be this way, not consciously, at least. It suited him.

And who else could it be but Harry Potter himself occupying the body, making it move and speak and bring the goblet to its lips. Draco didn't know how he knew, but he was willing to bet his life on that fact.

Potter seemed to be doing marvelously, and Draco wondered if the Gryffindor had studied him. He wondered if he was enjoying it.

Did this mean that he was behind this somehow?

Potter had stubbornly refused to look in his direction so far, but he would. He would have to, Draco knew. He would wonder. He would want to see for himself that Draco was indeed there, that he had kept the secret. That he hadn't done anything rash, like owl his parents, like owl the Dark Lord, perhaps.

Potter knew. They both did.

And then it happened: his own slate gray eyes gazed at him coldly from across the room, and Draco felt a shiver run down his spine.

Yes, I'm here, you bastard.

It was Potter who broke eye contact, turning the blond head a fraction so that his own body would no longer be in his line of sight.

For a moment Draco considered doing something rash, like gouging one of Potter's eyes out with the butter knife. Like owling the Malfoy estate.

And yet he knew he would do no such thing. For the moment, Draco Malfoy sat at the Gryffindor table, his hand gripping a piece of plain toast, and quietly seethed.

OOO

He'd posted a note to "Draco Malfoy" after breakfast using a nondescript barn owl, but had so far received no replies. Beyond that, there was nothing for him to do but wait; Potter had retreated into Slytherin, and there was no way Draco could follow in this body.

He had managed to shrug off Potter's friends during most of the day by hiding in the library and grounds, but he couldn't run forever.

"How about a round of Wizard's Chess, Harry?" Weasley asked hopefully, glancing up from his parchment.

"No," Draco snapped, not bothering to look at him.

He now sat in one of the surprisingly comfortable armchairs in the Gryffindor common room, head thrown back against the headrest, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

The redhead had come to collect him from his most recent hiding place – Potter's canopy bed – where he had entrenched himself to consider his options, and demanded that he joined them in the common room.

Fearful of appearing even more out of character, Draco had let himself be towed along. He could still sulk in the common room, he found; nobody appeared to be particularly surprised.

"Harry, aren't you going to work on that Potions essay due Monday?" Granger inquired, looking up from her own work.

Draco ignored her, fixing his eyes on the cheerfully burning fire. For the hundredth time, his mind turned over his current situation from every possible angle. The fact remained his options were few; Blaise Zabini was by far the only person he could come close to trusting in Slytherin, and confiding in him regarding this predicament was completely out of the question; Slytherin was Slytherin, you never knew what people would use against you. The stakes were simply too high.

He was on his own in this, and he had no idea what to do.

In truth, there was no one he could turn to – especially not his parents. Draco never thought he'd ever feel so completely and utterly alone.

"Hey," a voice said, tearing him out of his thoughts. "Want a chocolate frog?"

It was one of those mousy photographer brothers, something or other Creevey. Small and thin, the boy stood before him with a wan smile, a still wrapped chocolate frog on his outstretched hand.

Draco stared up at him, unmoved.

"No."

The boy's face fell, and Draco felt a perverse sort of satisfaction.

"Can I have it, Dennis?" the Weasley girl said gently.

Draco glanced past the Creevey boy's, his eyes once again clashing with hers. She was looking at him almost accusingly from where sat with her parchments, her bright hair reflecting the light of the fire as if it too were made of flames.

The Slytherin would have smirked at her, but there was something about the way she was looking at him that he found disconcerting. Once again choosing to ignore her, he turned away and stared at the flickering flames.

OOO

Harry, we love you. We believe in you! read the note a Hufflepuff had pressed into his hand. You can do it!

Draco stared at the childish scrawls before crumpling the piece of paper.

He was into his second day in Potter's body without a clue as to how he'd gotten there or how he would get out.

He'd gotten up early in order to avoid Potter's friends, but that meant he hadn't seen himself at breakfast either. What was worse, his maneuver hadn't worked. It seemed the remaining two thirds of the Dream Team were intent on keeping tabs on him – Draco wasn't surprised when he encountered Weasley and Granger waiting for him at the end of the corridor.

"Are you coming to Hogsmeade or not?" Weasley demanded, blocking his way.

"Or not," Draco retorted shortly, sidestepping Weasley easily and ignoring the brown-haired girl beside him as he walked by.

"Wait!" she snapped, turning on her heel and following after him. "I'm tired of this, Harry! We have to talk."

"I'M NOT YOUR PRECIOUS HARRY! DROP DEAD, YOU SILLY BINT!" he wanted to scream in her face, but managed to keep walking in the direction of the pitch.

"Harry!" she exclaimed, grabbing him by the sleeve and causing him to come to a standstill. "I'm talking to you! What's going-"

"ARGH! LEAVE ME BE!" Draco shouted, releasing himself from her grip. He so seldom raised his voice that to do so now felt exhilarating and tremendously wrong all at once.

Granger stared at him in shock. Her eyes looked enormous, gleaming with anger and sorrow.

"Don't shout at her," Weasley said in a low voice, placing himself between Draco and Granger. They stared at each other for a moment, until Draco realized it was time to capitulate.

"I apologize," he murmured, breathing deeply in an effort to calm himself.

Granger was blinking rapidly, looking everywhere but at him.

"Would you both please...I'll speak to you when I'm ready." He didn't wait for their reply before turning and continuing on his way.

He stepped outside and automatically headed in the direction of the Quidditch pitch, grateful for the cool air of early fall that filled his lungs, the crunch of dry leaves beneath Potter's sneakers, the open space and the absence of humans to be careful of.

It was a fine day, chill with the promise of winter, crisp and sunny with the sun blazing overhead. Without even thinking of it he broke into a light run, leaving the trail behind and choosing to pick his own path on the bright green grass of the lawns that led to the pitch. He circled around, running effortlessly, feeling the muscles of this body respond to his command.

That bastard Potter was fit, no doubt; Draco had barely broken into a sweat. He imagined the Dark Lord running laps around the pitch and snorted.

When he reached the pitch Draco saw that there were others here already. Judging by the bright red banner of hair waving in the cool breeze, it was the Weasley girl up on one of the brooms. She watched as Romilda Vane and Euan Abercrombie, also Chasers for Gryffindor, did rolls on their brooms.

"Romi, lean in on the right turn," Weasley was calling out, just as she spotted Draco.

Their eyes met briefly, but they did not acknowledge each other.

"Hey, Harry!" called Vane, coming out of one of her rolls.

"Further in on your right turn," Draco snapped, for indeed the Weasley girl was right – she was coming up short.

He continued to jog easily, effortlessly, enjoying the demand on his muscles, the way his lungs moved air in and out. Occasionally he would look up, and he saw that the Chasers continued to work on their exercises under the supervision of Weasley, who would occasionally demonstrate a move.

She was good. There was no doubt about it. Great, even. She was every bit as good as her brothers had been, the formidable Weasley twins. Quidditch was the only thing the Weasleys could command respect in, he mused.

Watching her, Draco felt like flying, felt like mounting a broom and kicking up, up, up. He decided to do just that. Jogging up to the broom shack, he opened it an examined what was available to him. The broom in best condition was a Comet 260, by far inferior to his Firebolt, but it would have to do.

Draco mounted and took to the sky, feeling the same vague elation he'd experienced many years before, the first time he'd ever gotten on a broom. The feeling had never faded for him.

He flew in a wide, fast arch around the pitch, faster and faster until the cold wind burned his cheeks and his eyes watered. For the first time in what felt like ages he was able to forget his predicament, if only for the moment.

"Oi! How about a game?" called Abercrombie eagerly, bringing Draco out of his reverie.

He looked back at the group, noticing the way the Weasley girl's eyes were on him. What a curious way to look at someone; it was as if she were seeing him for the first time, almost as if she were waiting to be introduced.

It's true, he had exchanged a manner of charged glances with her over the years – in a way, there was an unspoken little something between them that Draco would never have admitted to out loud. But as she had no way of knowing this was him now, in all probability her covert glances were because she'd never gotten over her well-publicized crush on Potter in her first year.

In that case, Draco surprised himself thinking, she really was a twit and Potter was more of an idiot than he'd initially assumed.

Breaking eye contact with the redhead, he hovered opposite the Gryffindors now. "Girls against boys?"

This was fair, he knew. Romilda Vane was a better flyer than Abercrombie.

"Fine," Weasley replied.

She gracefully swooped down to the ground, where the box with the Quidditch gear awaited. Picking out a Quaffle and a Bludger, and tossed the bats to the other Gryffindors and the Quaffle to Draco.

"Think you can handle being a Chaser?" she shot at him, as he caught the Quaffle in one hand.

Draco smirked. He enjoyed being Chaser much more than Seeker. And, if he was honest with himself, he was better at it too. Weasley wouldn't know what hit her.

OOO

"Are you sure you can walk?" he inquired, looking at her doubtfully.

A bump the size of an ostrich egg was growing on the side of her forehead. She looked like crap, in all honesty.

The girl attempted a nod, but she staggered and her right hand went up to her forehead.

Draco arched a brow. "Hop on my broom," he commanded, and after a second of hesitation she complied, wobbling slightly.

"I'm so sorry, Ginny!" Abercrombie said for the fifth time, "I didn't mean to, I didn't expect it to clip you on the head like that..."

Draco snorted.

"Put this stuff away," he instructed the Gryffindors, slipping easily into the familiar role of Quidditch captain. "I'll fly her to the infirmary."

He turned to look at the still dazed girl perched on the broom behind him. Her brown eyes met his before he looked away, turning to face the front again.

"Weasley, put your arms around me like you've always wanted. Can't have you falling off."

"Excuse me – " she began hotly, but was silenced as he abruptly kicked up. Her hands immediately snaked around his waist.

Draco smirked.

He'd enjoyed himself immensely, there was no denying. It had been so long since he'd just played Quidditch. Nothing to lose or gain, just play – and with a worthy adversary, at that. She played like a man, this one did. She gave it her all and there was no need to hold back, to be gentle. Heck, if he tried any of that stuff she'd fly circles around him with her eyes closed.

"You're a good flyer," he said quietly, and she was silent for so long that Draco thought the wind might have carried his words away. He didn't know why he'd gone and said that, anyway.

"Why Harry," she murmured finally, just as quietly, "you make it sound like you've never been Chaser to me before."

Draco took in her words in silence, narrowing his eyes slightly. He would have turned to look into her face, had he not known he'd find her eyes, like twin pools of the lightest amber, calmly gazing back at him.

Chapter Three: Kissed

-

As if the status, the looks, the money, the girls, the clothes and the almost suffocating luxury of his daily surroundings wasn't enough, it turned out Draco Malfoy was hung like a goddamned Hippogriff.

"Of course," Harry muttered, rolling his eyes. "Bloody wanker."

He shook himself and zipped up, pausing to wash his hands in the basin. He caught a quick glance of Malfoy's face in the mirror as he lathered his hands. He avoided looking at the mirror as he performed his ablutions in the morning – it was unnerving to have those pale eyes on him, cold as two pieces of lead – but now he met their silver glare head on. He'd have to get through much worse if he expected this to work.

Seeing Malfoy walking around in his own body continued to be quite a shock each time, though he thought he'd been prepared for it. Fortunately his day had involved zero interaction with Gryffindor so far; Harry didn't think he was quite ready to face his friends from behind Draco Malfoy's face.

"Are you dueling tonight?"

The lead gray eyes scanned the room in the reflection of the mirror. It was Theodore Nott, a Slytherin in Malfoy's year. Harry had seen him with the blond a few times, and assumed they were on good terms.

"No," he replied shortly, looking at himself in the mirror rather than at Nott. He had, of course, no idea what duel the Slytherin was referring to.

"That's too bad. You're the best, Malfoy. Who are you betting on?" Nott inquired, coming up to one of the urinals.

Harry said nothing, drying his hands on one of the green towels.

"I'm for Pucey," Nott continued conversationally, as his urine pattered against the porcelain of the urinal. "Montague has looked rather well lately, though."

Harry snorted at the mention of Montague, an idiot and a lousy Quidditch player, in his opinion.

"Hmmm," Nott murmured. "Perhaps you're right. Still, he'll provide for a good match, I should hope. The others are all amateurs."

Harry finished drying his hands and turned away. He didn't acknowledge Nott before he left the restroom.

Outside, a group of Slytherin girls waited for him – Daphne Greengrass included.

Harry gave her a furtive glance. Images of their encounter that first morning flashed in his mind, his eyes flitting to certain parts of her anatomy of their own accord. He felt his cheeks burning and quickly averted his gaze. Without sparing the girls another glance, he strode ahead, and they hastened to catch up.

"Draco! Wait!" Pansy Parkinson called out, running him down and slipping her arm through his.

Harry resisted a shudder and let himself be towed along.

Pansy Parkinson wasn't ugly, necessarily. In fact, physically she was quite good looking if you ignored her slightly upturned nose. There was something in her personality, however, which made her most unattractive. The same could hold true for most of the girls in this House, Harry thought.

He had to admit he felt more comfortable among the men of Slytherin, whom he could openly treat with a muted sort of disdain. The women, however, he had no idea what to do with.

Unfortunately, there was no help for it; Malfoy was a bloody pimp and appeared to always have a flock of Slytherin girls fawning around him.

But who was to say the women didn't have their uses? One of the objectives of this exercise was to gain information, and they could certainly provide it. His eyes strayed towards the delicate form of Daphne Greengrass once more. Her green-blue eyes met his, darted away. Looked back.

Harry held her gaze. This time, he didn't blush.

 

OOO

 

On Sunday afternoon just before dinner, Draco Malfoy walked down the deserted corridor of the fourth floor west wing. He had no particular destination in mind, really he just wanted some privacy.

He'd dropped Ginny Weasley off at the infirmary, sharing a brief but charged look with her before he'd flown off. What could she mean by looking at him like that? Surely she couldn't have figured out that...

There was so much to wonder about, and no clue as to when he'd get any answers. Still no reply from Potter, and he was beginning to wonder if he'd reply at all.

Turning a corner, Draco kept to what he knew were the less transited areas of this wing. He had no idea what would happen if he encountered the remaining two-thirds of the Golden Trio alone again, and he wasn't anxious to find out. More than that, he was tired of being accosted by people, of being questioned, encouraged, confronted. Being the Chosen One was no cake walk... No wonder Potter had switched bodies with him.

As Draco listened to the sounds of his own footsteps against the marble of the floor, he had the feeling that he was not quite alone.

He pretended not to notice that he was being followed, all the while covertly glancing at the reflection of the glass windows. The golden light of the setting sun gleamed dazzlingly, but he was able to make out a quick flash of red hair.

It was the Weasley girl.

She was quite adept at this, he noted; anyone who wasn't used to being stalked probably wouldn't have picked up on her presence at all. But he was Draco Malfoy, after all, and he knew a thing or two about being tailed by random females.

He smirked to himself.

The spell aimed at his head caught him by surprise, and he barely had time to deflect it. A second later Potter's wand was in his hand, the Shielding Charm casting a field around him. He turned in time to catch her next incantation: Petrificus Totalus.

Draco dodged this one with ease, years of sparring with far more powerful wizards coming to his aid even in this strange body.

"Expelliarmus!" he countered, already swinging his wand in an arc for the next spell. Even now he was mindful of his form, the concept of grace having been drilled into his skull by Lucius.

She evaded as he expected, but was caught off guard by his next hit.

"Mobilicorpus!"

He pointed his wand at her, then at himself.

With a gasp, the girl was lifted off the ground, struggling in vain against the magnetic force that flung her towards Draco. The Slytherin opened his arms as she crashed into his chest, catching her and holding her small form to him. A moment later he had ripped her wand from her hands; it clattered to the ground.

"Finite," he grunted, putting an end to the spell.

Grabbing her roughly by the arms, Draco drove her back into the wall with far more force than he'd intended. Her back and the stone of the wall met with a hard smack, and her body was propelled forward into his with the momentum. He stilled her with his own body, his hands still vice-like around her thin wrists.

"What is your problem, Weasley?" he demanded, his eyes intent on her wide brown ones. They were round with disbelief, and Draco realized that the use of her family name had shocked her more than the physical roughness with which he was handling her.

He would deny. He would deny until the end. She had no proof, and no one would believe her. What's more, she might not even be certain of what she had unearthed.

"Who are you?" she demanded, narrowing her eyes.

On second thought...

Draco stared at her for a moment, taking in the flush of her cheeks, the defiance of her raised chin. Was it possible to neutralize her through logic alone? Was he willing to Obliviate her if that failed?

Yes.

"Ginny..." he said softly, in Potter's quiet voice, "Gin, I'm sorry. I've been under a lot of stress lately... I know I haven't really been myself lately."

His hands were still wrapped around her wrists, their chests pressed close together so that he could feel her breasts heave with every breath.

She looked up at him in silence, her brown eyes unyielding, never giving anything away.

Draco prided himself in his ability to read people, but here was someone he'd so far been unable to figure out. Looking into her eyes, he realized he had no idea what she could be thinking.

"I'm sorry," he said again, releasing her wrists. "What on earth did you throw at me?"

She blushed, and covered up by rubbing her wrists. "Levicorpus."

They were no longer touching but remained in close proximity. Up this close, he could see her, really see her face. The bump on her head and accompanying bruises were gone after her visit with Madam Pomfrey. Her plump lips were pressed into a tight line, her golden eyes still her dominant feature. He could see there were flecks of green in them.

"It was a good try," he conceded. "But when you throw a curse at someone, you have to really mean it."

Her blush deepened. "I don't need lessons from you," she snapped, clearly stung that she'd been bested.

"Yes, I can see you're doing just fine on your own..." Draco raised an eyebrow.

She scowled.

"Why did you attack me?"

"I didn't attack you... I just... I wanted to talk to you..."

The Slytherin snorted and opened his mouth to speak, but her next words silenced him.

"You're not Harry," she said firmly.

Draco blinked. "Why not?" he demanded. Inside his chest, his heart pounded like a hammer.

The Weasley girl glared. "Harry doesn't go around insulting his friends like you do," she informed him. "Harry doesn't fly or play Quidditch like you do... Harry... doesn't look at people the way you do."

"And what way is that, pray?" he murmured, disguising his surprise.

His eyes bore down on hers and she blushed, but didn't look away.

"You're Draco Malfoy," she stated. "I don't know how you did this, but I know it."

Draco felt his stomach flop. He didn't know what was more shocking: being outsmarted by this girl, or hearing his name on her lips.

"Draco Malfoy was at breakfast today. Didn't you see him?"

"Yes," she replied firmly. "I saw him. He was sitting at my table."

"Ginny," he said softly, "I think you've hit your head pretty hard-"

"Don't call me that, Malfoy." Her tone was sharp.

"Don't call me Malfoy," he ground out between his teeth.

"It is a rather stupid sounding last name, but it's yours and you should accept it, don't you think?"

Draco snorted. Variations of 'This from a Weasley?' and 'Do you really think that with hair like that you ought to be insulting anybody?' ready to fly out of his lips, but he held himself in check. Just because he was in the body of a stupid Gryffindor didn't mean he had to act like one.

"If I were Malfoy, would it be smart to bait me like this, Ginevra?"

Her golden eyes widened. "How do you know my name?"

"I'm Harry freaking Potter, that's how," he said dryly. The truth was more complex than that, but there was no need for her to know. "Listen, if this is some novel approach to seduction –"

"– Harry doesn't use words like 'novel', Malfoy," the redhead scoffed.

"Stop calling me that! Are you daft?"

"You're daft if you think you'll get away with this for much longer," she informed him. "Have a two minute conversation with Hermione, or even Ron, on a day they're not acting like Hufflepuffs and they'll see through you like that." She snapped her fingers in his face demonstratively. "They're not as stupid as they look."

Draco stared. "Listen... I have no idea what you're talking about," he said finally. Then he picked up her wand, handing it to her hilt first.

She accepted it, her eyes going from the wand to his. "How did you do this? How did you two switch bodies? Or is Harry in someone else?"

Deny, deny, deny!

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said imperiously. And then his expression softened. "Really... I have no idea."

And this last part, at least, was the truth.

 

OOO

 

Harry descended into the Slytherin common room flanked by Malfoy's posse. Crabbe and Goyle, who had grown to the size of small cars since the last time Harry had stood next to them, were to his left and right respectively. Pansy Parkinson was draped on him like an old rag.

He wrapped his arm around her waist as he'd seen Malfoy do dozens of times, but his eyes sought a head of brown curls.

They'd spent a lot of their weekend together, Malfoy's so-called friends and Harry. He hadn't been surprised to discover that alliances here were frail, relationships superficial and guarded. He wondered now if this was what Malfoy felt all the time: as if he were playing someone else.

He let Parkinson guide him to their seats, two green leather chairs set in a prominent part of the room. The furniture, he noticed, had been rearranged into a circular formation, leaving space for a long row of tables in the center, presumably for the duelists to face each other on.

Harry seated himself in a manner that conveyed a lazy sort of elegance – a lot of playing Malfoy involved forcing his body to learn to relax. Malfoy never looked anxious or tense. Malfoy never looked expectant. Malfoy never looked anything more than bored or indifferent, or vaguely amused, at best.

Prick.

To Harry's surprise, instead of seating herself next to him, Pansy Parkinson plopped comfortably onto his lap. His body stiffened in response, and he willed himself to relax once more.

"Should be a good one tonight," Zabini observed, slipping into the seat beside Harry's.

He was dressed all in black, in much the same manner as Harry had dressed Malfoy's body. His soft curls were tousled around his dark face in a becoming way and his long, slanted eyes sparkled with something like amusement. Zabini's full lips were permanently curved into a haughty half grin which, unlike Malfoy's trademark smirk, was devoid of any real unpleasantness.

Looking at him now, Harry recalled once hearing Hermione remark that he was "not bad looking". He supposed she was right.

"Are you up tonight?" the raven-haired Slytherin inquired, pouring a gleaming liquid from a flask into two glasses.

"No," Harry said simply, accepting one of the glasses from him.

"Shame."

"Yeah, Drakie-poo. Shame," Pansy parroted, wiggling in his lap.

Harry turned to her. Without giving his action prior thought, he lifted his knee and tipped her over. She gave an indignant squawk, but a glance of Malfoy's ice-gray eyes was enough to keep her at bay.

Zabini snickered beside him.

Harry sat back comfortably, taking a sip from the golden liquid in his glass – it burned all the way down his throat. He resisted gagging and watched as the first duelists of the night mounted the improvised stage.

Two duels were fought quickly, with barely a reaction from the crowd. Harry thought they'd been good enough, but no one seemed to pay them much attention; the buzz of conversation carried continuously until it was time for the main event.

Adrian Pucey and Rodolphus Montague, who were both members of the Slytherin Quidditch team, mounted the stage to a complete halt in all conversations. People sat up in their chairs, and suddenly the air itself seemed charged with electricity as the two saluted each other and squared off, wands drawn. Money quickly changed hands, and excited whispers fluttered like leaves among those gathered.

The duelists circled each other.

Harry thought of his duel with Malfoy earlier that year; he'd been good – No, he'd been great. Being honest, if it hadn't been for his efforts in the D.A. and the fact that Malfoy had been caught off guard, Harry probably wouldn't have stood a chance. So this is where the wanker gained his practice. Weekends in the Slytherin common room.

On the dueling arena, light flashed from a wand and was deflected by the slight movement of another.

The audience stirred. Small gasps and faint swearing could be heard now and then, as the duelists continued to fling hexes at each other. For the most part onlookers were silent; there was surprisingly potent Dark Magic in the air.

Harry's eyes roved over the crowd once again, but the face he sought was not to be found. And suddenly there she was, slipping onto his lap gracefully, bearing the fragrance of fresh jasmine. Without giving him a chance to react, she curled in his lap and sought his mouth, driving her tongue in between his lips.

The sweetness of her kiss mingled with the burn of the firewhisky and danced on his tongue. All considerations of the fact that she was Slytherin, that they were in public – that she was kissing Draco Malfoy and not him – dissolved as her tongue intertwined with his.

It took Harry a second to realize that he was hungrily kissing her back.

 

OOO

 

It was hardly fair that the Slytherins each got their own room, but it certainly made things easier –  that and the fact that as a Malfoy and a Slytherin, the blond had every right to suddenly act aloof and withdrawn from his social circle for no apparent reason.

That was exactly what Harry had done once he'd managed to come up for air, excusing himself from further partaking of the night's entertainment with a brief nod to Zabini and a brush of his fingers against Daphne's cheek.

Gaining reentry into Malfoy's room had proven to be a bit of a challenge at first. The door was protected, he'd quickly discovered. After standing there for ten minutes rattling off stupidities like 'pure blood', 'superior', variations of 'dragon', 'Draco rulez' and even 'friend' – hey, it worked for Frodo – a frustrated Harry discovered that Alohomora cast from Malfoy's wand did the trick.

Now alone in Malfoy's quarters, Harry undressed and prepared for bed. He wondered how well Malfoy was faring in the Gryffindor common room.

Well enough, Harry suspected. He had the certainty, the curious gut feeling, that Draco Malfoy – and no one else – would understand. That he would adapt, that he would play along, waiting for his opportunity to reverse what Harry had done. That he would keep the secret.

He wouldn't deliver Harry into the hands of the Dark Lord. He would confide in no one, for Harry suspected that he had much to lose if this were discovered. In short, everything.

Harry's eyes went to the piece of parchment spread on Malfoy's fine mahogany desk. It was addressed to "Draco Malfoy" – quotation marks and all.

From where he stood, he could easily make out the time and date detailed in the elegant handwriting. He felt so strange looking at things without the familiar black frame of his glasses as an outline, and yet he didn't need them in the least. His vision was perfect.

 

OOO

 

Draco Malfoy was surprised to learn that while in Slytherin significant verbal exchanges were preceded – and interrupted by – frequent scanning of one's surroundings to make sure one wasn't being overheard, in Gryffindor no one actually expected for others to eavesdrop. This made said task infinitely easier to accomplish.

"Harry has been acting weirder than usual, has he not?" Weasel was saying quietly.

From his vantage point outside of one of the common room's entrances, Draco had a limited view of the room, but he could just make out the back of the Weasley girl's outrageously red head and part of her brother's freckled face. He could already tell that the tension in the line of the Weasel King's lips meant that he was extremely worried.

So transparent, these Gryffindors. He could read from them as if from an open book.

All save one.

Ginny Weasley had remained staunch in her belief that he was who he really was and not who he said. Or something like that.

Nothing he'd said following their strange conversation in the deserted hallway had convinced her otherwise. And to his surprise, he'd let her go – unaltered.

"I know you won't hurt me," she'd said simply, and Draco wondered if that was what made it true.

"Of course not," he'd countered. "I'm Harry bloody Potter; I wouldn't hurt a fly."

But she knew. She knew, and by letting her leave with the secret, he'd trusted her, without even deciding to.

Draco brushed stray locks of raven black hair out of his eyes. He waited tensely to see what would develop in the room, ready to level the redheaded girl with a flick of his wand should he need to. He could confound her, maybe modify her memory.

And then what?

A heavy silence reigned over the room following Ron Weasley's question. With a sinking feeling, Draco watched as Ginny Weasley finally spoke.

"I've kind of been talking to him," she began, at which her brother raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Harry hasn't really been himself. He's been under a lot of stress lately, Ron," she recited gravely, parroting Draco's exact words to her earlier. "He's going through a lot, and he seems to think that he needs to handle this on his own. I just think you guys need to give him some room..."

Draco stared at the back of her head in disbelief.

Why in Merlin's name had she gone and said that?

He had no way of knowing that at that moment, Ginny Weasley herself couldn't have answered that question.

 

OOO

 

Last night, he'd barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he would replay his conversation with the Weasley girl, the way she'd covered for him when she thought he couldn't hear. In his mind's eye, Draco could clearly see the look on her face when she'd asked how he knew her name.

Ginevra.

There was something about her, some associations he'd made with the thought of her long ago, things that had lain under the surface of his consciousness, things he'd never pondered before because there was simply no point. Maybe if things were different...

Taking in a deep breath, Draco willed himself to clear his mind of thoughts and stretched his arms wide, letting the last vestiges of sleep evaporate. His muscles longed for the stretch, the particular exertion only exercise could bring.

The sun rose slowly above the pitch, casting strange shadows over familiar shapes, making everything seem somehow more solemn. In the crepuscular light of fall, Draco felt something like peace; he had always liked this time of day.

"Nice, isn't it?" Ginny Weasley's voice said from behind him. "I love this time of day."

Draco stared. She was clad in form-flattering spandex, of all things. Her bright red hair was done up in a loose ponytail, and she was looking up at the tops of the trees, where the sun glimmered gently between the gold and brown leaves.

"What are you doing here?" he challenged, as if she'd attacked him again. Somehow, part of him felt, she had.

"Harry," she replied, dripping sarcasm, "we said we would go jogging together every other morning, remember?"

Draco shrugged noncommittally. "No."

"Well, we did."

He glared at her for a moment, irked that she held his gaze.

"Fine, Ginny," he snapped. "Think you can keep up?" He broke into a light run, and heard her snort for all reply.

A moment later he heard her shoes crunch over the leaves in the path, and before he knew it she was running up beside him.

"So, Malfoy –"

"Why did you do that?" he cut in, turning his face so he could glare at her again.

He knew his demeanor was childish, but he didn't particularly care. For some reason, her presence stirred up a storm inside of him, one he wasn't prepared to deal with.

"Do what?" she inquired, never breaking her stride.

"Why did you lie to your friends for me?"

Ginny opened her mouth to speak and then closed it.

"Well?" he pressed, increasing his pace.

"I didn't do it for your sake, you stupid ferret," she said at last, running faster as well.

"Oh? Then why did you do it?" the Slytherin replied, ignoring the barb.

"So, wait a second," she cut in, smiling slyly. "You're admitting that you're not Harry? That you're Draco Malfoy?"

"I said nothing of the sort," Draco shot back in a clipped tone. "And don't change the subject."

"Never mind why. I just want to understand what's going on."

"That makes two of us," Draco retorted.

Ginny was silent for a while, thinking. All that could be heard was the sound of leaves crunching under their steps, the synchronized rhythm of their labored breathing.

"So you really have no idea how this happened?" she said at last.

Draco shook his head.

"Any theories?"

"Potter knows what happened," he said tightly. "Or did it himself."

Ginny nodded. "I think you're right. Harry has been so weird lately. Disappearing now and then, not talking at all, to anyone. Anyone except Dumbledore. He was up to something, I'm sure of it. Have you contacted him?"

"Yes. Draco Malfoy won't return my owls," Draco said bitterly.

The girl beside him snickered. "I'm sure a lot of people have said those words before. Karma! What a bitch."

The Slytherin glared at her. Who did this silly girl think she was, anyway?

"You have to talk to them, you know," she said finally, brushing her long hair away from her face as they continued to run.

A moment later, she darted past him and the Slytherin increased his pace once more until he was level with her.

"Talk to whom?" Draco said distractedly, trying to ignore the way her firm bum and long thighs were outlined by the material of her jogging pants.

"The Dream Team."

"About what?" He scoffed. "What heroics we could get up to this weekend? No thanks."

He sped away, forcing her to catch up to him.

She did.

They ran a few more laps before she declared she was stopping. Heading off the field, she collapsed onto the grass, her hands balled into fists, eyes closed against the early morning sun that filtered through the leaves.

Coming up to where she lay, Draco observed the way her bright red hair contrasted with the vibrant green of the fresh grass.

"Like what you see?"

"Yes," he said simply.

Ginny’s face was red from exertion, making it difficult to tell whether she'd blushed or not. She continued to speak as if he hadn't said anything, and Draco let it drop.

"I'm not saying to tell them who you are. I honestly don't think Ron could handle that. But the thing is, Harry's been a total dick to them."

The Slytherin rolled his eyes. "This again?"

He was still trying to catch his breath as he lay beside her on the ground. He could feel his heart thumping against his chest, his muscles heavy and tingling in a way that was not at all unpleasant.

"He's completely shut them out," she continued, ignoring his protest. "He's been talking to Dumbledore again... Whenever Harry goes to him, he ends up becoming really withdrawn for weeks. It's so weird..."

"Well, that's just their fucking problem, isn't it?" Draco said caustically.

"No." Ginny smiled a slow little smile that, already, the Slytherin beside her had realized meant trouble – mainly for him. "See, you're Harry now, remember? They're not going to leave you alone. EVER. That's your fucking problem."

"Speaking of which..." Draco countered, resting on his elbow and letting his eyes run down her sweaty form. "How about taking Potter out for a ride?"

Ginny's eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing as she turned to stare at him, mirroring his posture.

"Well?" he inquired, lowering his voice. "All that you've always dreamed of – only better, seeing as I will be the one at the controls."

For a moment, the girl stared at him in disbelief. And then, to his surprise, she threw her head back – and laughed.

"It is so weird to see Harry trying to be sexy! And you talking about yourself as if you were you and Harry at the same time! Gah! Don't be gross, Malfoy."

Draco looked dumbfounded. "Trying to be sexy? And what do you mean, don't be gross? It's not like he's hideous."

"You're defending Harry's looks now?" she asked incredulously.

"No, of course not! But it's been three days I've been in this body. What am I supposed to be, some kind of bloody monk?"

"Goodness! Three whole days!" Ginny exclaimed, rolling onto her back again. "How can you live?"

The Slytherin gave her flat, Quidditch toned midriff a very sidelong glance and asked himself the same thing.

"Malfoy," she said suddenly, narrowing her eyes. "Why are you doing this? Why are you here, pretending to be Harry, when you could be marching his body straight up to Mordor, or wherever it is that You-Know-Who lives? Why haven't you told your parents, or something?"

"Weasley," Draco said calmly, glaring right back, "in order to march Potter's body into You-Know-Who's house, I first have to be back in my own body, don't you think?"

Ginny pressed her lips together tightly, golden eyes flashing. "So that's it, then, is it? Once you get your body back..."

"Don't be stupid," Draco said dismissively, again lying flat on his back. "Once I have my body back, I'm done with you people. Let Potter fulfill his stupid destiny... I'd be glad if he did. If someone takes down the Dark Lord, I can probably get a job playing Quidditch, or something."

Ginny stared at him in poorly disguised bafflement. Draco Malfoy wasn't exactly what she'd been expecting.

"Now," the Slytherin said, staring up into the canopy of golden leaves under which they lay, "tell me more about Potter being weird. I have to figure out a way to deal with the Dream Team."