"No! No no no! This is not happening! This cannot be happening!"
"Harry, listen to me," Ron seized Harry's shoulders and shook him sharply. "We've got to get you back to the Ministry. They'll have a counter-curse to change you back."
"Yes!" Harry looked up from the cobblestones, where he was busy hunching and moaning. He scrambled to his feet, then staggered to the side as his altered center of balance, extra inch of height, and lower profile muscles responded differently from what he was used to.
Ron caught his elbow, then grimaced and yanked his hand back as though burned.
"Ron, it's me," Harry said through unfamiliar lips. Thinner, maybe. And his tongue was, what, longer or wetter or more flexible or something, he wasn't sure. It was just different, and that was bad enough on its own. The idea of having someone else's tongue attached to his skull was so much worse than he could have possibly imagined.
"Sorry," Ron mumbled. He reached out again and grasped Harry's elbow. "Come on, then."
Harry Disapparated for the Ministry with Ron in side-along. They rushed inside and made their way to the Auror office, where they both hoped to be hired on as soon as there were openings. The Ministry had backfilled with Aurors from other districts and was still trying to figure out how to staff up in a post-Voldemort world.
Ron entered first and called for help. Three heads popped up over cubicle walls and leapt into action.
"Freeze, Death Eater! Don't move!" The first Auror took aim at Harry and glared at him from beneath a heavy brow.
"Weasley, step away from him." The second man took aim from the other side.
"What did he do to you? And where's Potter?" A witch with a heavy-duty potion holster strode directly up to Harry and pressed the tip of her wand against his temple. She gritted her teeth and hissed, "Talk, you little cretin."
"Ron, help!" Harry called. He slowly raised his hands to show he was unarmed and unthreatening. The sight of his pale fingers liquefied his bowels again. He wished he could curl up on the floor.
"Wait! That's really Harry!" Ron shouted. "He was caught by a curse in Knockturn Alley."
The three Aurors shared a look. "How do you know?" the first one asked. "Did you see it happen?"
"Yes, I was there," Ron nodded furiously. "That's not Draco Malfoy, that's Harry Potter."
"Prove it," the female auror snarled.
"Ron doesn't wear any pants to sleep," Harry blurted out the only proof he could think of.
The three Aurors paused and checked Ron's face for confirmation. He grinned sheepishly and shrugged. "What can I say? I find them binding."
"Please, you have to believe me," Harry took some comfort in the fact that his voice sounded the same. None of that posh, lazy speech of the wealthy. "Ron, it's really me, right?"
"It's really him." Ron looked entirely miserable about it, too. "My best mate has been turned into a Malfoy."
The Aurors finally relented and let Harry sit down. They had him pull a chair up to a table near the Head Auror's office, which was dark at this hour. The glass window that enclosed the space reflected the rest of the office back at them, which unfortunately meant Harry had no choice but to see himself reflected back, too.
He waited patiently while Ron debriefed them, his trembling hands clutching a teacup and trying to take some comfort from its warmth. He stared at his reflection, at the familiar but wrongly placed face that stared back. Paler than he should be. Slimmer than he should be. Taller than he should be. His eyes were no longer their usual green, now they were unnervingly pale silver, his pupils shrunk down to pinpoints as the terror of being transformed washed over him in waves. His nose was too straight and regal, his chin just a bit too pointy, not a whisper of stubble or a blemish anywhere to be seen. On top of his head his thicket of black hair was gone, replaced by fine blond hairs that laid down obediently and moved with silky softness when he turned his head. It was all wrong.
"We're going to start researching a counter-curse," the first Auror called from across the office. "You should go home and get some sleep."
Harry looked up in surprise. "Sleep like this?" his voice cracked. "I can't sleep like this. I can't wake up like this!"
"Harry, they don't know how to change you back yet," Ron sat across from him and tried not to make eye contact. He stared at his fingers on the table.
"Ron," Harry said. He didn't look up. "Ron, look at me."
His best friend shifted uncomfortably in his chair and cleared his throat. He raked a hand through his ginger hair, scratched his nose, and cleared his throat again. Finally he looked up and met Harry's silver gaze.
"It's really me," Harry said softly. "I'm sorry. I should have paid attention. I should have seen that curse coming. But it's really me, I swear."
Ron sighed and sat back in his chair, his eyes downcast again. "I know."
oOo
Harry stared up at the ceiling of his flat as a sliver of early morning sunlight crawled at a snail's pace across the textured plaster. He had slept terribly. Between the anxiety of being cursed and the disconcerting sensations of being in the wrong body, sleep had been as elusive as a fantasy. Outside Hogsmeade was waking up, the familiar clatter of vendor carts over cobblestones somehow less comforting than usual.
Less comforting, Harry decided, because he was terrified of the idea of going outside. He wanted the outside world to freeze, to disappear until a counter-curse was found. That the world would go on about its business as though nothing had happened seemed exceptionally cruel.
He refused to move. He would lie in bed as though frozen in ice, he would remain in stasis until someone showed up at his door with a cure. He would not use these stolen muscles, he would not walk on these stolen feet, he would not look through these stolen eyes, or speak with these stolen lips. If he laid here motionless he could pretend nothing had changed. He was just Harry, no big deal, just Harry having a lie-in.
It was a great plan, if only his stolen bladder didn't disagree. He squirmed and tried not to think about how his arse felt different on the mattress. Less padded, maybe. His legs beneath the sheets sent alarming signals to his brain that told him he was lacking sufficient hair to insulate him from the caress of his flannel pyjama bottoms. And his bladder, his traitorous bladder, it just wanted the loo.
Harry held out as long as he could, which only amounted to another ten minutes. If he didn't get up he would be at risk for weeing the bed, and then he would have no choice but to get up. It was totally unfair. It was blackmail. Why a tiny pouch of urine should have such control over his life was beyond him. He was a powerful wizard! He had defeated the Dark Lord! How could he succumb to something so banal and childish as wee?
He couldn't wait any longer. He hauled himself out of the bed and tried to ignore the pale blond forelock that fell over his eyes. No, Harry Potter has black hair, you must be mistaken.
He shuffled to the loo, noticing that his pyjama bottoms were too short now. He frowned. "Now" made it sound like a permanent change. His pyjama bottoms were temporarily too short. That was better.
He kept his eyes closed when he reached the bathroom. He'd done this enough in the dark, or after a long night in the pub. He could find the toilet by feel. There, that was easy.
But now he was faced with a conundrum. Now he would have to touch his knob. And if that was different... Harry shuddered at the thought. Of course it would be different. But what if it looked strange? Or worse, what if it looked nice? Once things were straightened out Harry couldn't have that image floating around in his brain. Especially given the possibility of running into the real Draco Malfoy at some point. Could he face him knowing he had a monster cock?
Now hold on, he didn't know that it was monstrous. It didn't feel particularly large when he walked. Why should he have even imagined the possibility? Still, the idea of touching it made him squeamish.
He remembered being a child, back when he still lived with the Dursleys. It had taken only two bed-wettings before Aunt Petunia started leaving the cupboard door unlocked so he could get to the loo in the middle of the night. He'd become adept at keeping his eyes closed so he wouldn't have to wake up all the way, and on those occasions he'd found it easiest to aim successfully by sitting down to wee.
He dropped his pants, turned, and sat. With the briefest nudge he positioned and relieved himself and was back on his feet without having to look at his unfamiliar knob. Eyes still closed, flush, turn, and walk out.
His memory of the bathroom layout must not have been as solid as he thought, because he caught his hip on the edge of the sink and ricocheted into the towel bar. His eyes snapped open and there in front of him was the mirror.
Oh gods.
Draco Malfoy stared back. Draco Malfoy in a burgundy Gryffindor pyjama top. His white-blond hair was rumpled, his pale gray eyes were bloodshot, and he stared back at Harry in utter dismay.
As though in a dream, or perhaps a nightmare, Harry raised his hand to touch his cheek. Draco did, too. He touched his hair and felt the silky fine strands slip between his fingers, and the man in the mirror did the same. He reached out with trembling fingers and touched the glass and Draco touched him back, their fingers mapping in perfect reflection.
Harry swallowed a scream. Draco's face twisted in agony. Harry grabbed two handfuls of hair and pulled, and went full-tilt furious when his former school enemy did the same.
"Stop it!" he screamed at his reflection. "I hate you! Why are you doing this to me?"
Draco-in-the-mirror had the same question Harry did. His heart pounded and his breath came fast and shallow. In the mirror Draco's pale cheeks reddened and his eyes went unfocused, and then everything went blurry and gray and the room tilted to the side, and the next thing Harry knew he was lying on the floor, his head in the corridor and his legs beneath the bathroom sink.
He had fainted, he told himself. He whipped his hands up in front of his face to check but his fingers were still long, slim, and pale.
Still Draco Malfoy.
No.
Still Harry Potter. Don't forget it.
He shook his blond hair out of his eyes and climbed to his feet, then tried to decide what to do next. His stomach answered with a resounding growl, which drove him to the kitchen for a disappointing perusal of his cupboards. If he wanted to eat he would have to go out. Not bloody likely.
His stomach growled again.
It was a ridiculous idea. He couldn't go out there looking like this. He wouldn't know what to do or what to say. What if he ran into friends? What if he ran into enemies? What if he ran into Draco Malfoy himself?
He shuddered and buried his face in his hands. It didn't bear thinking about. He hunkered on the living room window ledge and squinted out at the snowy sidewalks. There weren't many people out there. It was still early. The bakery across the street would have plenty of provisions to keep him fed until someone found a counter-curse.
He gazed down at his fingers and noticed that all of the prints on his right hand were whorls and all of the prints on his left hand were loops. Interesting but not helpful. His real hands, his birth hands, were a mix of print types, as he assumed most normal people's hands were. Not this strange perfect unity across all fingers. It had to have been selected at birth, by charm or by potion or something. It seemed fitting that a pureblood family would spawn unnatural fingertips for the sake of a more refined appearance.
"Joke's on you, Malfoy, if you were really refined both hands would match," he told his fingertips.
His stomach spoke up again, but he stifled it by jamming his fist into his abdomen. Then he drew his knees up to his chest—more flexible now—folded his elbows across his knees—slimmer biceps, but not twiggy—and rested his head on his arms. If he was going to get food, now was the time. Hogsmeade would only get busier with every passing hour. If he was going to get something, it had to be now or never.
Maybe starving to death would be the quickest way out of his misery.
He had to go now. He flung himself off of the window ledge and padded to the bedroom, where he threw on a lumpy red jumper and a pair of muggle jeans, then jammed his feet into a pair of trainers and slipped a black knit cap over his head. He pulled it down over his ears and eyebrows to hide as much of his face and hair as possible. Then he squirmed into his black peacoat, turned the collar up, and descended to street level with a determination that only barely overpowered his anxiety.
And then he was outside. Outside in Draco Malfoy's face. Where everyone could see him. What if they looked at him and knew? What if part of the curse was that everyone could tell who he really was and laughed? Ha ha, Harry Potter has turned into Draco Malfoy, that's hilarious!
Shut up, everybody else, he glowered around at the sparsely populated sidewalks. But so far no one had noticed him. Good.
He dashed across the road to the bakery and queued up to order, fidgeting with a handful of Galleons in his pocket, and when it was his turn he first ordered a Cornish pasty and a bottle of milk that he could slam back right away while he decided what else to order.
The baker handed over the pasty and the milk and accepted his money. Harry stepped aside to let the next person order while he crammed it into his mouth. Food tasted the same, at least so far. He wondered if having a different tongue would mean liking or disliking different foods. Which just reminded him that his mouth was full of Draco Malfoy's wet, squishy tongue and his stomach threatened to rebel.
The bell above the bakery door chimed and sent colourful sparkles floating across the room. Harry stepped back to make it clear that he wasn't part of the queue at the moment. He took another big bite of his pasty just as he heard a sound that made his blood curdle.
"Draco?"
Fuck.
Harry looked up and met the wide-eyed stare of Pansy Parkinson, beside whom a mildly interested Blaise Zabini looked on. They were between Harry and the door. No escape. He swallowed hard and frantically tried to think of something to say. Something that would excuse him from conversation. Think, brain, think!
Pansy's expression darkened. She stepped up close to him, glared in angry silence, then slapped him hard across the face.
Harry reeled back and stumbled over a waste bin, his vision flaring into a million tiny flashes of pain. A gasp from behind the counter told him that the strike was as violent and unexpected as he thought it was.
"Buggery hell, Pansy," he rubbed his cheek and wobbled his jaw to make sure it wasn't injured. "What did you do that for?"
"That's for not fire-calling and telling me you were back," she spat. "You haven't called since the sentencing. My community service ended in December. Blaise's ended two weeks ago. When were you going to tell us you were done?"
"I don't know," Harry kept his head tilted down and avoided looking her in the eye by fiddling with the cap on his milk bottle. It was on tight.
"And what are you doing in Hogsmeade, anyway?" she demanded. Blaise stepped around her and quietly placed his order with the baker.
"Just visiting." The cap finally came free, and to avoid the obligation of answering further he tipped the bottle up and chugged the milk.
Pansy recoiled in horror. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Is that milk? Why are you drinking that?"
Harry paused. What was wrong with the milk? "I like it?" he shrugged. Oh please don't say the whole ruse would unravel due to such a petty detail.
"Pans, tell him what you want," Blaise called. He turned and gave Harry a critical once-over as Pansy went to the counter and studied the assortment of pastries and breads. Blaise's gaze fixated on Harry's jumper, which had been gifted to him by Molly Weasley and had never fit particularly well, but now looked absurdly baggy and ill-fitting on his current frame. "What on earth are you wearing, Malfoy?" he asked, his voice dripping with contempt. "And are those muggle trainers?"
Harry opened his mouth and frantically tried to come up with an explanation. In the reflection of the bakery case he saw Draco Malfoy standing slack-jawed with a half-eaten pasty in one hand and a half-drunk bottle of milk in the other. Harry Potter was nowhere to be seen. And although that wasn't new information, the sight kicked off a renewed flurry of anxiety. His stomach turned and clenched. And then rumbled. And then cramped.
That wasn't anxiety.
"You're turning green, Malfoy," Blaise smirked, clearly enjoying his friend's discomfort. "Did you ever find it funny that you have no more guts for dairy than you do for pureblood honor?" Pansy socked him in the arm and hissed at him to be quiet. She was right. The word "pureblood" was a risky one to utter in public these days.
"What are you talking—" Harry's stomach lurched. "Oh gods." He bolted for the door and threw himself outside. A vendor cart nearly flattened him as he blindly stumbled across the cobblestone road and threw himself up the stairs to his flat. He barely made it through the door before the roiling threatened to buckle his knees, and in one motion he threw his breakfast on the table, shucked his trousers, and planted himself on the toilet.
What followed was misery, agony, and pain, all rolled into one explosive digestive event, that eventually left him feeling drained and unable to do much more than crawl back to bed. He recalled Pansy's horror at the way he had chugged his milk, and the way Blaise said he had no guts for it.
Harry could have gone his whole life without knowing Draco Malfoy was lactose intolerant. But now he knew.
Bollocks.
