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."