It wasn't Potter's hair. Nor Weasley's, nor Granger's. Draco stared at his reflection in the dirty mirror. His pale face was flushed and a few strands of his combed hair had come undone. But there was no mistaking it—Draco had remained Draco. The Polyjuice Potion simmered away on the bathroom floor, Moste Potente Potions lay abandoned next to the sink, and Draco had seen, actually seen, with his own eyes even: Potter and Weasley turning into his friends while Granger had managed to transform herself into a human-cat hybrid. And yet, the potion seemed to have no effect on him.

"Stupid potion. I should've known it was rubbish."

It seemed rather absurd to him then and he laughed. What exactly had his plan been? Drink the potion and then ruin the trio's image? Disgusting as it was, Potter's reputation had already taken a dive off the deep end—the idiots believed him to be Slytherin's heir. Weasley… well, everyone and anyone important already knew of them and as for Granger; Draco had a wistful thought of Hogwarts holding a candlelight vigil for her and any other Mudbloods caught in the Heir's grasp. There was no reason, he realised, to have even thought of drinking the Polyjuice to begin with. And besides, Granger had been the one to cook up the potion in the first place and look at what'd happened; Draco had no wish of being stuck with a stranger's face.. or worse. Still, even in his relief he felt irritated at the fact the potion hadn't worked on him. It had worked on Weasley, hadn't it? Blood-traitor though he was, his blood still ran pure. He had marked off the potion backfiring on Granger on her dirty blood and yet, it still didn't make any sense. The fires under the cauldron died and Draco took it as a sign that it was time to leave. The potion he could mull over in the common-room tomorrow.

"It wouldn't do to be caught in the girl's bathroom. I wonder what everyone else would make of it: Potter, Weasley, and Granger sneaking off to the girl's in the middle of the night? Shame that Potter didn't learn any proper manners; I suppose it's Weasley rubbing off on him. With a brood that large, you just can't spend the time—ugh!"

His eyes felt as if a red-hot poker was being shoved through them; his throat seared and cut his scream into a whimper. It was like the time father had let him try a sip of whisky, only he had swallowed the shattered glass as well. A small prickling of needles pierced his skin from head to toe and Draco could only gasp and pray that they passed swiftly. He fell to his knees, then to his hands. The floor was covered in acid and Draco only managed by swapping whatever body-part made contact intermittently. The pain began to ebb away and he found himself sobbing on the bathroom floor. There was no thought in him beyond, "please".

A small pin-prick of pain let him know that it wasn't quite over. It started in his crotch and drilled upwards inside him. It was like the first time he'd came but without the pleasure. It was the worst of his hunger pangs mixed in with the time he'd fallen off his broom. His stomach was eating him from the inside out; dull throbbing punches were accented with sharp kicks just above his place-down-there. It seemed happy enough to drill and drill inside him until finally even screaming past his raw throat became an option.
"Please! Stop this!"

Draco awoke to a sharp voice. He struggled to his knees, wincing to the pain that would not come. Everything seemed dangerous to him, even opening his eyes. He didn't hurt anymore but his body remembered the fire, remembered the last time he'd been burnt. He'd kicked the cauldron over in his trashing and his robes were soaked. It smelled something awful and in the context of the bathroom, being covered in the brown liquid made him gag.

"W-who's there? Prof-professor?" His voice was hoarse. It sounded like he'd aged ten years.

"Good idea! They'd be interested to know about a boy in the girl's bathroom. Oooh, the trouble you'd get in."

Moaning Myrtle had returned. She'd escorted Potter and his friends to the infirmary… which meant… Potter would be returning. That was enough for Draco to will his legs forward. He left the bathroom at a brisk, if stilted, jog. Myrtle glided alongside him.

"You're the Malfoy boy. I know because they're always going on about you. Did you know that they sneaked inside the Slytherin common room? I do. They're always going on about that too—in my cubicle, that is. And so rude! They're always inside and no matter what I do, they won't leave. And that cauldron smoke gets my head all foggy; I really ought to tell a professor, only that they won't listen to me, oh no, who would listen to poor Moaning Myrtle?"

It barely registered in his head. Something had gone terribly wrong, this he knew. The potion had worked after all. He hoped that he didn't look like a cat—or worse, Granger. There was no time to return to the bathroom and check for himself… if only Potter had stayed at the infirmary for a little longer! So much for the friendship of Mudbloods and traitors. What good was it if it didn't even buy him a few minutes?

"I'll tell father," he began. His head was splitting open from the ghost girl's whining. "I'll tell father that at this school, if you can even call it that, there are ghosts that do absolutely nothing but bother students all day long. He's a governor, you know. You'll be kicked off the grounds. So there—leave me alone."

"Oh, don't stop there. I'd love to be out of this stupid castle. There's nothing to do all day and people think that it's funny to flush me out into the lake. The Ministry's the one who stuck me in Hogwarts in the first place, you see. I was haunting that awful, awful girl Olive Hornby, you see, and—"

Draco had never been so happy to see his common-room. He ran the last few feet towards the doors, spluttered out the password, and retired. Crabbe and Goyle sat by the fire, their backs illuminated by the lake's ghostly rays while their faces glowed bright with the hearth-fire. The smell of roasted marshmallows cut through the air and for a moment, Draco almost smiled. Then the memories of Potter and his lackey came rushing back in, putting a scowl back on his face.

"Crabbe! Goyle! Where were you?"

They shifted around with unease. Pieces of dried marshmallow encrusted their lips.

"We was attacked, weren't we, Goyle?"

"Yeah. Woke up in a closet."

"Well, that's all fine then, isn't it?" Draco turned and spat. "How can I call you two my friends if you aren't even there for me when I need it? And how did Potter and, and Weasley manage to knock you two out? And drag you into a closet?"

"It was Potter then! I told you it was Potter!"

"That mudblood probably taught 'em the spells too, didn't she?"

Sometimes it was infuriating to be surrounded with idiots. The dumb brutes weren't even good muscle, seeing as they'd been beaten by Potter. At times like these, Draco wished he had someone who he could really talk to… share ideas and swap theories with. His father had encouraged him to carry himself in a dignified manner and yet had provided him with a string of incompetent lackeys. Even with his sore throat, he couldn't help himself from shouting. But who could he turn to? Nott? He'd been a childhood friend but upon coming to Hogwarts, well, he'd become hard to reach. Draco suspected that he was homesick. Parkinson—a simpering, foolish girl who'd undoubtedly become a cheap woman. Nothing like his mother. The Quidditch team... now there was an idea. Only problem being Flint, who'd near blown out his eardrums after the last match. So what if they'd lost one match? It was his father's money that had carried them that far in the first place!

"What's that, Draco?"

He spun around in a panic. Of course, the Polyjuice Potion! He'd been in such a hurry to get back to his common-room that he hadn't had the chance to check himself first.

"What's what, Crabbe?" He tried to put in as much a sneer as he could. It came out as a snivelling whisper.

"Got mud on your robes."

"Yeah, there's mud everywhere."

"And… and what about my face?"

"Huh?"

"Never you mind. I'm off. In the future, I expect you not to lose to Potter so easily. What are you here for in the first place?"

He stalked off to the boy's rooms then paused. A terrible prickling of fear began to itch in his mind. Supposing that Potter and Weasley, upon seeing that they'd been discovered, had made their way back into the common-room? It seemed silly to think that they'd made their way back faster than he had—a Slytherin beat to their own common-room? —and yet horrifyingly possible. After all, he had been unconscious for a time unknown to himself.

"Crabbe! Goyle! Where do I live?"

"Huh?"

"Our fathers are friends. Surely even you must remember coming over? Where. Do. I. Live?"

"Er… Wiltshire… I think."

"Yeah, it's gotta be… Wiltshire."

"And what did we do last summer?"

"Er… well we practiced a bit of Quidditch, didn't we?"

"Yeah, cos second years can be on the Quidditch team, can't they?"

"Draco? Where you going?"

His suspicions put to rest, Draco left his friends to their marshmallows and went to bed.

Sleep did not come to Draco Malfoy. His legs had burned hours ago; now they remained just numb. The candle burned to its last and Draco stared at his reflection in the murky green light of the lake. If there was a Slytherin who had to use the bathroom, they'd have dirtied themselves without any hope of opening the door. Draco squat on the sink; his legs were spread wide open. Even in the dark, Draco knew. He'd become a girl. Or at the very least, become like a girl in the most physical and vulnerable of ways. When he removed his robes to clean himself, he knew. When he held the candle-light down to his crotch, he knew. And yet, still he stayed frozen; transfixed to his reflection until the evening had crept into midnight into the witching hours. The Polyjuice Potion wasn't supposed to last this long, was it? He knew that it changed forms but for how long? Forever? Pure-blood though he was, he'd never been an obsessive learner. It wasn't in his books… he hadn't come out and checked but somehow he knew deep in his gut. He felt an acidic regret for taking such pleasure in Granger's cat-like form… he'd even spat out an apology in the hopes that the potion would wear off.

As the hours crawled by, Draco noticed that his eyes were taking on a green hue. He wasn't sure how much of it was from the light—his body was cast in a sickly green—but as time went on, Draco become sure of it. Green eyes. He had an inkling of what his hair colour would turn into next but try as he might, Draco wasn't able to see his crown and anyway, his tips didn't seem all that ginger. Not yet, at the very least. He would not cry, that he decided from the very start. His father had brought him up with dignity and pride. He would not cry. He was still a Malfoy, was he not? His blood still ran pure through his veins, like the very freshest of virgin spring-waters. His lip quivered; Draco turned away from the mirror for the first time. His legs were deadwood and as he attempted to climb down from the sink, he smashed headfirst into the floor.

For a minute, he imagined himself to be back in the girl's bathroom. This time, he hadn't drunk from the cauldron to begin with. He had tripped and fallen over this cloak and soon enough, he would wake up as Draco Malfoy—only son of the Malfoy family. His thoughts wandered from there and arrived back to his current predicament. What, he mused, would happen if the change remained permanent? All his life he'd been doted over as a young, handsome boy of pure stock. Surely nothing would change if he was a girl, would it? Perhaps he'd be hidden away in his manor... home-schooled like the Weasleys. The thought of his friends finding out about his transformation, however, made the idea seem sweet. Or at least, bitter-sweet. Or maybe, he thought, he'd be sent off to Durmstrang under a false name. That would be all the better. Durmstrang was a proper institute. He'd heard at Durmstrang that Mudbloods weren't allowed... but they didn't have Hogsmeade, did they? And Draco had been looking forwards to his third year... A pounding on the door soon doused him from his dreams.

"Who's there? You alright in there?"

"Y-yes. Yes. I'm alright. Just had a fall."

"I see. Well, you be careful in there. Just because we live under the lake's no excuse. You ought to carry a candle when it's night out."

Draco struggled to his feet. A simple touch down there confirmed what he already knew. In the morning, he decided, everything would be fixed. Everything would be okay. Sleep would fix everything. He pulled on his pajamas, tossed the remains of the candle in the bin, and left his dirty robes on the floor for the house-elves to clean. Sleep, he told himself. Sleep would fix all things. He knew it.