Transposition

or

. . .

Disclaimer: Don't own Worm. Don't own Harry Potter. Didn't invent the Worm/HP crossover, but I did write this one.

Like Pinky and the Brain I'm keeping this to a T rating, which I interpret as "Nothing I haven't seen on over-the-air network TV."

~*T*~

Taylor woke up, bereft and alone, cold, wrapped in a single threadbare blanket, with no sign of her wives, in a bed that was much too small, and in the wrong spot - she stubbed her fingertips on the wood-paneled wall patting the cold bed in the forlorn hope she'd find Amy or Lisa there.

She forced herself up to her knees, bashing her head into the low stepped roof. She scratched her hand on a nail poking out of it when she went to rub the sore spot, and hissed a bit.

She sucked on her bleeding hand, sat on her heels, and looked about for her glasses in the small, dark room. She finally saw a glint of light, and patted for it. The glasses had thick black frames and round lenses, but she put them on anyway. Her passenger was still there, but her range was tiny, just a little bigger than the house she was in. The fire, and her alternate form as Nanagou, was missing. Worse, her tail was missing, the two-thirds of an entity that should be connected to the base of her spine . . . wasn't.

Her belly clenched, her stomach roiled, shoulders hunched, her breath shortened. She recognized the symptoms, forced her shoulders back, "I took down Lung. I survived, blinded, beaten, and escaped a burning building in the middle of a gunfight. I'm less strong, but I am not weak." Her range flared under her determination, encompassing the houses on three sides, and the street in front. The shame retreated, and she turned her attention to the rest of the room she found herself in.

Three walls were straight up and down, and the last stair stepped up to being the roof. The mattress under her on had no frame, but it did have a fitted flannel sheet, and there was another blanket, slid off the edge onto the floor.

The door had slats, and, on the edge closer to her, a lever in a slot. Taylor sighed, and crossed her arms over her chest, "This is some real Roald Dahl shit, huh, Taylor?" She asked, having noticed instantly, but ignored for now, the fact that her bosom was a lot flatter than it had been, not that it was all that much to begin with. She took in a deep breath, let it out, and opened the door in search of a bathroom.

It was upstairs, and Taylor used the toilet, noted the different tackle and lack of pubic hair, and finally looked at herself in the mirror as she rinsed off her clean hands.

The green eyes were pretty, the short black hair adorably tousled, but would look much nicer a bit longer, the face prepubescently androgynous. The scar on her forehead looked fresh, maybe a few months old, still bright pink and inflamed, a jagged zigzag. She grinned Nono's grin at herself, missing the fire, but able, if not ready, to take on the world.

She clattered down the stairs and into the back yard. With a sigh, she started. First she checked her flexibility, which sucked worse than it ever had before. Her forms were just as bad, proportions wrong, balance funny, limbs not moving right. Strength and endurance were lacking, too, thirty push ups and twenty frog-hops to muscle failure. She lay on her back for a minute before she got up and started some static cool-down stretches, barely managing to get her fingertips over her toes, forehead nowhere near her knees. The other way was worse, and her splits . . .

She pulled her legs in, rose to a standing position, arms crossed, "Lots of work to do."

That work, apparently, included cooking breakfast for a whale, a heron, and a pony. Luckily she knew what they wanted, where it was kept, and how they liked it. Unluckily, she also remembered why she knew that.

And her new body's name: Harry Potter.

~*T*~

Notes: Since this was a common question in the reviews: This Taylor is almost the one from my story Pinky and the Brain. Amy made a couple choices differently, but the main flow of events was the same.