One by one they each stepped out in the atrium of the Ministry of Magic. Around them emerald green flames belched out witches and wizards into the polished wood and brick corridor, dozens of fireplaces actively transporting people in and out.
Harry's guts twisted and he worried that the milk was returning for a second volley. But Hermione gave him no time to think, she tapped his elbow and strode off down the corridor towards the lifts. Ron scrambled to catch up to her and grasped her hand in his. The grip was more protective than affectionate, but Harry supposed that was a matter of semantics.
He tried not to think about how exposed he was. As he walked he couldn't ignore the glimpses of recognition here and there as other wizards passed them and glanced his way. Draco Malfoy, son of the infamous Lucius Malfoy, who was now serving seven sequential life sentences in Azkaban for his betrayal of the Ministry. Son of the disgraced and barely-pardoned Narcissa Malfoy, who had been deported as punishment and now resided in a small wizarding town along the French Riviera. Not a bad punishment at all, by Harry's measure.
He saw disgust, sympathy, revulsion, admiration, hatred, and approval in the rippling wall of faces that passed by. He'd been on the receiving end of those looks as Harry Potter, but now it seemed the types of people bearing those expressions were reversed. Those who showed admiration and approval did not look like the kind of people he wanted admiration from. And those who showed naked disgust were people he would have wanted on his side.
He wondered how he would have taken the phenomenon as a child, when he hadn't yet done anything to earn the right to receive any of those emotions, yet received them nonetheless. He had to believe it would shape a worldview very much in opposition to the one he knew.
He hauled himself up short. That sounded suspiciously like rationalizing Malfoy's misdeeds.
They passed through the golden gates and paused at the bank of lift doors. Hermione asked them to wait and dashed around the corner in pursuit of someone she knew from work, leaving Harry and Ron alone.
Their reflection in the polished brass doors was odd. A Weasley and a Malfoy standing beside each other, about to share a lift without shuffling around and making excuses to travel separately. It was bizarre, Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy, best mates. Only the twisted mind of a madman could have imagined such a sight.
"When we get there—" Ron glanced back and cut himself off mid-thought. His eyes widened in horror. He swung back and stared at Harry. "Malfoy!"
"I'm not Malfoy," Harry sighed. Why did he keep having to—
"Malfoy!" Ron hissed urgently. He jabbed a finger down the corridor.
Harry followed its trajectory and saw the worst possible thing imaginable. Draco Malfoy, the real one, was walking towards the lifts with two men in formal robes accompanying him. If Harry's brain hadn't been occupied with sheer terror he might have appreciated how close his chosen outfit matched the one the real Draco was wearing. But as it was he could observe no such detail. All he could think was one thought:
Got to get out of here! Got to get out of here!
"Malfoy!" Ron took Harry's frozen terror as obliviousness. He seized Harry's arm and shoved him behind a great granite planter that overflowed with decorative greenery to one side of the bank of lifts. Harry's shoes skidded and he toppled to the ground, then scrambled on hands and knees to put the planter directly between himself and his approaching enemy. Draco was close now.
"...My father's solicitor has not relinquished the ledgers as he was instructed to."
That familiar voice, that posh, lazy accent that oozed confidence, however false it may have been, turned Harry's guts into goo. There could literally be no greater humiliation than facing Draco Malfoy while cursed to wear his face and body. If he had to make a list of things that were worse, the list would be blank.
"Weasley."
"Malfoy."
Harry was proud of Ron's acting. He knew his friend was probably coming apart on the inside, but he'd managed to inject a flat, disinterested boredom into his mild greeting. It was notable that Draco didn't follow up with an insult. Harry peeked over the top of the rim of the planter and goggled at the same sight he'd observed firsthand a moment ago: Draco Malfoy and Ron Weasley, standing together against all odds.
Just then Hermione came back around the corner and rejoined them. "Sorry, I've been trying to catch up with Katherine all week. Harry, can you press the call button, please?"
No!
Harry's heart squeezed as the question escaped her lips. Draco turned slowly and stared at her, then looked around in confusion. She turned and faced him directly.
"Harry, the call button."
Ron jabbed her in the side with his elbow as Draco stared at her again in disbelief. "Are you completely mad, Granger?" he asked.
"That's a good likeness—" the flash of smile froze in rictus as reality dawned on her. "Oh."
Harry took a chance while Draco's back was to him and waved from behind the planter. Hermione spotted him and her spine went stiff. She cleared her throat and laughed, then mumbled something about being overworked and preoccupied.
"Hm," Draco turned back to face the lift doors. "Is she your girlfriend now, Weasley?" he asked.
"Yes," Ron's reply was clipped.
"You should take her to a healer to have her head examined," Draco said. "If she's mistaking me for Potter, there's definitely something wrong with her mind."
Harry bridled at the comment and resented being unable to snap back. He knew that tone. Self-satisfied, amused by his own cleverness. As he seethed it occurred to him that perhaps Draco meant it as a joke, but who did he think he was, joking around with Harry's friends?
"Mind your business," was Ron's best comeback. Harry rolled his eyes.
The lift chimed and the doors slid open. The two men in formal robes stepped inside, followed by Draco.
"Are you coming?" Draco asked. "I don't bite. At least not when there are witnesses."
You think you're so funny, don't you?
"Thanks, we're waiting for someone," Hermione said.
"For Potter? Look, here he comes now," Draco pointed down the corridor. Harry saw he was indicating an obese middle-aged woman in a floral print dress.
"Very funny, Malfoy," Ron sneered.
"Seriously, mate," Draco said in a conspiratorial tone. "Have her head checked."
Then the doors slid shut and he was whisked away.
oOo
The next lift arrived a moment later and they were shuttled to the other end of the ministry where the doors opened up into a grand, lofted space lined with gleaming cherry wood and filled with books. The air was rich with the scent of aging parchment and leather binding, and from all around the circular space the susurration of murmurs greeted their ears. Harry wondered why he had never heard of the Ministry Archives before.
An elderly witch in a tall, peaked hat appeared as though summoned, and it was clear from her demeanor that she recognized Hermione.
"Madam Wordsworm," Hermione bowed her head in respect and indicated her companions. "This is Ronald Weasley, my boyfriend, and this is—"
"Mister Malfoy, I have nothing more to say to you," Madam Wordsworm sniffed. "Until your father's solicitor releases this so-called proof—"
"I'm not Draco Malfoy," Harry interrupted. "Hermione, tell her."
"Madam, if I may," Hermione laid a hand on his arm. "This is Harry Potter. He was cursed and was transformed into Draco Malfoy."
"Just his body," Harry corrected. "I'm still me on the inside."
"By Merlin's beard," Madam Wordsworm shook out a pair of reading glasses and grasped his chin for a close-up inspection. "It's a remarkable likeness. We received a call from the Auror's office about this earlier this morning but I didn't expect..." She released him and removed her glasses. "Was it a Shakespearean curse? One of the Dark Lord's?"
"We think so," Hermione nodded. "They were clearing Knockturn alley and Harry accidentally triggered one."
"What was it called? Did you happen to see it in time to translate it?"
Ron raised his hand. "I saw it before it went off. It said, My Only Hate."
"My Only Hate," the woman murmured. "That does ring a bell. Come with me, Old Paul will know."
Harry followed the others into the stacks. Madam Wordsworm had to have been nearing eighty years old. If she called someone old, he must be ancient.
At the back of the hall they came to a broad table with stained, faded parchments spread across it, and seated before it in a tufted leather chair was a man so elderly that Harry questioned whether he was still alive. His eyes were milky white and rheumy, his beard was long and sparse, his hands were skeletal and trembled as he waved to wandlessly flip a page over without touching it. He looked up and worked his mouth for a moment before speaking. His voice was the embodiment of dust.
"Good afternoon," he said. "Have you brought me some well-wishers, Edina?"
"You've met Hermione Granger. This is her beau Ronald Weasley, and this is Harry Potter."
"I may not see as well as I once did," Old Paul chuckled. "But even I can see that that is not Harry Potter."
"I am, sir," Harry sat in the chair across from him without invitation. "I'm under a curse that changed my appearance."
"Shakespearean, is that why you're here?" Old Paul peered at him.
"We think so," Harry said. "It was called My Only Hate. Does that sound familiar?" His breath hung in his throat as he realized how much of his hope was hinged on the archivists knowing what to do.
"Of course it does," Old Paul smiled. "Romeo and Juliet. Published in 1597, a fine example of a his writing prowess. And, we believe, heavily coded."
"Why would a love story have such a terrible curse in it?" Hermione asked. "Why should Harry be cursed to live as his enemy?"
"William Shakespeare had a wicked sense of humour," Old Paul said. "To turn a man into his enemy, if only to show him how infinitesimal the value of rivalry is, that would suit the theme of the play."
"But—"
"Romeo and Juliet is not a love story, contrary to popular belief," Old Paul continued as though uninterrupted. "It is a great tragedy that illustrates how keeping hatred in your heart can rob you of that which is most precious to you, as the two warring families lost their precious son and daughter. It shows how the folly of adults can lead to folly in children, when poor decisions may lead to the greatest sorrows."
Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged a look that told Harry that they were all piecing the same idea together.
"Like the decisions of our parents' generation led to our sacrifices," Hermione was the only one who could articulate the thought. "Harry, connected to the Order of the Phoenix, and Draco, connected to the Death Eaters."
"Let's not take this too far," Harry said. "Let's not forget that Romeo and Juliet fell in love. Malfoy and I hate each other."
"That is what is so interesting about your curse," a smile creased Old Paul's face in a million tiny crinkles. "Act one, scene five:
"My only love sprung from my only hate!
Too early seen unknown, and known too late!
Prodigious birth of love it is to me,
That I must love a loathed enemy."
Harry looked back and forth between the elderly man and his friends. "I don't understand."
"Perhaps there is more to your rivalry with young Master Malfoy than you are willing to admit," Old Paul said.
"Right," Harry pushed himself to his feet and strode back between the stacks to the lift, where he mashed the call button with his stupid, sodding, too-pale thumb that didn't even belong to him.
"Harry," Hermione called. "Come back, there's more you should hear."
"I'm done listening to this," he whirled on her, not a bit concerned about speaking loudly in a library. "That old nutter thinks there's some kind of deep symbolic parallel, some kind of star-crossed lovers rubbish, and I'll not hear a word of it."
"But—"
"Not a word of it!"
Hermione shrank back and a shadow of anger crossed her face before being replaced by hurt confusion. "I'm sorry," she tried to recover her equilibrium. "You look so much like him, and when you're angry it's sort of like you're really Draco Malfoy."
Rage boiled in his chest. "I am not Draco Malfoy!" he shouted.
The lift arrived and he pressed the button for the entrance hall before Hermione could respond. As soon as the doors closed he was faced with his reflection, the blond, groomed upper-class twat who had destroyed his life.
"You fucking wanker!" he slammed his fist into the polished brass door.
And now his hand hurt. Thanks again, Draco fucking Malfoy.