Turning Draco's Coat

By

Aeriel Ravenna

Rating: R (for language and later chapters – perhaps a bit of violence as well, but not that much.)

Summary: Hermione Granger, with the help of Dumbledore, sends Draco into a parallel universe where he is Draco Granger, Mudblood and Gryffindor (as well as Harry and Ron's best friend...) and Hermione is Hermione Malfoy, Slytherin Slut and soon-to-be Death Eater. She goes with him and toys with him, just as he did to her. Will being a Mudblood be enough to bring Draco to the light side? And what will happen when, in the midst of being cruel to Draco, Hermione starts to have feelings for Draco?

A / N : Whoa, so sorry this took soo long! More about that later; I don't want to give anything away...but anywho, I'm really sorry if this is a bit rough around the edges, because I was in a hurry to post this so I didn't really edit it...oh well. Thank you everyone who reviewed SO much! Reviews are real encouraging, no matter length, content and all that. Keep it up, guys! And be sure to read the Author's note at the end, I would really appreciate it... Hope you like!

Draco was falling, falling through color so bright and vivid it hurt his eyes. He closed his eyes tight, welcoming the semi-darkness that enveloped him. He willed the shade to close in completely, to block out the swirls of color that burned through his eyelids.

Mercifully, oblivion came.

Draco came to in a warm room. Blearily rubbing his eyes, he pushed his comforter off him. He stretched on white cotton sheets as an alarm clock went off.

Wait—what the fuck?!?!?! Draco's mind screamed. My sheets aren't white, they're black! They aren't cotton either! WHERE ARE MY BLACK SATIN SHEETS? And why is there a bloody alarm clock?? I'm not a Muggle—wait! Where am I? Wasn't I just in Dumbledore's office?!?!

Draco sat up. As he did so, a flood of 'memories' that were his—but not his—rushed up to greet him.

He was Draco Granger, Head Boy and top of his class. His best friends were Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. He had a certain charm, as well as, of course, good looks, but his know-it-all, book-worm-ish behavior didn't tend to land him many dates.

Shit!!!!! He inwardly screamed. He was a Muggle-born wizard.

SHIT!!!!!!! He once again inwardly bellowed. He was a virgin. Putting his head in his hands, he let everything rush over him.

His parents were John and Laura Granger. They were dentists. He was an only child. His best subject was Charms—well, actually, he had perfect marks in everything in potions. In that class, he was about three points away from the ideal. His favorite book was Magic In History, or perhaps Five Thousand Charms To Get You Somewhere. Or perhaps...well, he had many favorites.

In conclusion, I'm a boring, bookish fart, he thought angrily. More particulars about 'himself' rushed over him. Once all the facts about him settled in, and as he was about to rise from the bed, his memories set in on him.

His letter from Hogwarts. Saving the world countless times from Voldemort. His best friends, just hanging out together. His letter about becoming a Prefect, then Head boy. His parents teaching him random facts in the car. His Muggle friends. His girlfriend who he was steady with until they mutually decided to break up. Ginerva Weasley, who he once had a kind of thing for. Studying some text in which he apparently found fascination. His trip to Wizarding France. His dorm at Hogwarts. His wand. His trips to Diagon Alley.

On and on, memories of good times filled his head. He digested these memories slowly. After about fifteen or twenty minutes, more streamed into his mind—but these were memories of a different sort.

Being petrified by the Basilisk. Being hurt, scared, and anxious while saving the world from Voldemort. Being taunted by the Slytherins. Mudblood. Mudblood. Mudblood. A masked Death Eater, sliding masculine, sweaty, disgusting hands over his slim, lean body until Harry had come to save him, just in time—. Being beat up by some unruly Slytherin students. Mudblood. His parents—in the next room—whispering—freak. Freak. Freak. The students, whispering, bookworm. Bookworm. Bookworm. All the girls ignoring shy, sweet Draco in favor of complicated, bolder Harry and gangly, outspoken Ron. Being ignored by everyone. His Muggle elementary school 'friends,' whispering—sometimes speaking loudly—rumors.

Bloody fucking Merlin, Draco swore. Could his day get any worse? Yes, of course it could, because his mother called up to him, "Draco! Breakfast, darling!" Bloody wonderful. Now I must consort with Muggles. What the bloody hell happened??

"Yes—Mother!" he added quickly, repulsed. Hesitantly, he stepped out of his room. His body seemed it know the way around this house, as well as Draco Granger, but Draco Malfoy felt lost.

Suddenly, he smelled something. Something good. Growing up in a house run by house-elves, he hadn't ever smelled the delicious scent of freshly made pancakes wafted through a medium sized house.

He walked into the kitchen to see his mother—but not. It was Narcissa Malfoy's outward looks, but she was wearing Muggle sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt with the words, "VIOLENCE IS NOT THE ANSWER: NOT NOW, NOT EVER!" sprawled across it. She was flipping a few gorgeously golden, brown speckled pancakes. Chocolate chip pancakes—his mum's specialty, the Draco Granger inside of him said. Draco had only ever had pancakes a few times, when at Blaise's—his own parents thought them disgustingly rich.

"Morning, hon," she said, smiling widely at him. This was a new experience for him—he didn't remember ever seeing his real mum smile at him like that. "Sleep well?"

"Mm, yes," Draco said, smiling. Where in holy hell did that come from?? I did NOT mean to say that. Or smile.

"That's good, sweetie. Are you all packed for Hogwarts already?"

"Yes, Mum, I did it last night," he said, once again without meaning to. He began to ferociously attack his heaped plate of pancakes. Only when he was savoring his last bite did a new thought other than 'Eat, man, eat!' enter his mind.

I wonder if I can only speak automatically? Can I say anything? Oh, well, can't hurt to try, he thought.

"Mother, did you ever wish that you had the advantage of magic, like me?" he tried. It worked. He inwardly sighed with relief. If he hadn't been able to—why, it would be like being a prisoner in his own body.

"Mmm, not really, it wouldn't quite suit me. I prefer my probing instruments to a wand, thank you," she smiled. Draco felt his own lips tug into a smile. "Now, sweetie, go upstairs and check that you haven't forgotten anything."

"Mum, you know I don't forget things," Draco 'whined,' but compliantly got up to go upstairs. He had reached the staircase when he felt a large hand on his shoulder. He turned to see his father behind him, smiling slightly. Draco felt his heart spasm. It was Lucius Malfoy, but—not. It was eerie how the man before him had the same slate gray eyes as his father, the same straight nose, elegant facial features, but completely different.

I think the Muggle life suits you, Father, Draco thought, maliciously gleeful at his incriminating new information.

"Good morning, son. I'm sorry I have to leave you so soon, but I must be off—one of my patients desperately needed an early fill job," his father explained. Draco felt his mouth turn up once more into a smile.

"Its okay, Dad, I'll owl you later," he said and rushed up the stairs before his father could hug him, as he supposed was customary. He was sure that his father was a nice guy—well, not really, but perhaps to Muggles, he was—but hugging someone who looked so exactly like Lucius Malfoy (except that he had laugh lines, of course) was uncanny.

Draco opened the door to his room. He supposed he should change into something, but he hadn't much of an idea of what Muggle things went together. He racked Draco Granger's mind. It was odd; he had a sort of...additional part of his brain that was solely Draco Granger's.

After a few moments of unsatisfying combinations of strange Muggle clothes, he finally decided to dress simply, in dark denim jeans and a black t-shirt that hugged his hest quite appealingly, he thought.

As he was dressing, Draco realized that there were some things a bit off about his body. First off, almost unconsciously he held himself slumped, bent over and almost hiding himself. Secondly, his scars were still there, but—different. They didn't look so much a purposeful beating anymore, more an accident. Lastly, he was—for lack of a better word—softer. Draco Malfoy was pampered and preened, but every inch of his skin was deliciously firm to the touch, whipcord muscle from hours of training—swordplay, wand dueling, Quidditch, everything. This—Draco Granger—was soft—trim, in shape, lightly defined, but yielding. Draco felt vulnerable.

Draco supposed he was upset, but he couldn't find the strength and energy to be too pissed off—once the initial shock had worn off, of course. This was sure as hell no picnic, and he was not enjoying it, but these things happened all the time. Being a pureblooded wizard, he was raised from a young age to expect just this type of thing.

'If you ever find yourself in this kind of situation, darling, don't panic. Everything will come to rights, always,' Narcissa had said.

'For god's sake, woman, stop coddling the boy, he needs to figure it out for himself,' Lucius had said, eying his then-young son distastefully. Narcissa simpered sweetly.

It was one of his first memories. It portrayed perfectly the relationship of himself and his parents—his mother's fussing love, and her need to please her husband, and his father's detached love and high hopes for a strong, traditional son.

"Draco, dear, the cab's here!" His 'mother' called from downstairs. Draco, sighing, ran a hand through his hair—an unconscious habit of this new body, he supposed. Picking up his trunk, he carefully brought the loaded thing down the stairs and into the hands of an awaiting cabby. His mother fondly kissed both cheeks.

"I'm sorry I can't come with you, dear," she whispered, looking sadly at her beloved son.

"Its okay, Mum. I love you," he said. Jesus, I can't believe I just said that. Draco thought, rather forlornly. Hugging his mother once more, he got into the cab.

I suppose the easiest thing to do is go along with this bloody life, Draco thought, rather irritably, as he picked at the fraying, fake leather interior of the cab. I just better bloody get out of here soon.

Fifteen minutes later, still silently brooding, he arrived at the station. He gave the cabby and ungainly wad of paper money—somehow, he knew the money system—and hefted his trunk out of the boot of the car. He slowly walked through the station until he found Platforms 9 and 10. Taking a deep breath, he jogged, his trunk spinning rather wildly in front of him, through the barrier. Heaving a sigh, for reasons inexplicable even to himself, he was filled with a sense of relief.

Finally. Home. Well—the wizarding world, anyhow. Not quite home.

He was just about to saunter—or slouch, actually, as his new body seemed apt to do—onto the train, when a short, red-orange topped blur hurled itself upon him.

ooooooooooooo

Hermione woke from swirling colors to find herself trapped under a heavy weight. Her inner instincts of Hermione Malfoy told her to slit her eyes open slightly, imperceptibly, until she got a better idea of her surroundings. Although reluctant, Hermione obeyed her inner self's wish.

Hermione almost gasped when she saw what, exactly was laying about her.

It was a man.

And not just any man, either—one of the most handsome men she's ever seen. He had dark brown hair, long eyelashes pressed to his cheeps in sweet slumber, his sensual mouth fully closed. He had a highly muscled torso—a bit too muscled for her tastes, actually—and was seemingly tall, from what she could tell while lying beside him.

He was also completely naked.

As was she.

Hermione Granger wanted to blush. Hermione Malfoy wanted to smirk. Goodness, I suppose I wont get very far if I just let my normal old bookworm self handle this! She thought desperately.

It was then that the tidal wave of memories hit her. Unlike Draco, she did not have to bear through the facts—she had made sure she knew them beforehand. Never moving a muscle, Hermione waited through her flashes of the past.

Her first broomstick. Her best friend, Blaise Zabini. Endless presents. Being the Princess, the ruler, of the Slytherins. Lording over all others. Losing her virginity. Receiving the Head Girl letter. The look on her parents face when she managed to please them. Being captivating, alluring, mysterious to the opposite sex—and ...playing with them. Her discovery of dancing. Being carefree, young, vibrant. Numerous half drunken parties, with herself as the center of attention.

Her memoirs of good times seemed to stretch on. Most, it seemed, portrayed Hermione as a free-spirited but extremely sophisticated and yet—contained young woman. Also, inwardly blushing, Hermione realized she had been with quite a few guys. Hermione had no idea that this was the type of life Draco had lived. Suddenly, the worse memories struck.

Crucio. Having to act prim and proper. The Golden Trio. Pansy Parkinson. Arguments about her future. Punishments. Whispers—'Slut, thinks she's better than everyone else, bitch.' So few—so few to confide in. Being showed up by a Mudblood. Displeasing her parents—her father. Stereotyped, always. Never being able to do EXACTLY what she wanted, when she wanted—always had to be approved. Being rim and proper as a showcase daughter. Crucio. The constant worry that she was going to see her father killed, put in jail—whatever.

Hermione had never known that Draco had lived that way, either.

She could mull on this later. Now, she had to wake the beauty that was lying beside her, still sleeping. Hermione stretched into her memory and personality of Hermione Malfoy. What's his name? How do I wake him?

Jon Moonstrum. Do something—daring, wild.

Frowning, Hermione pondered how to do this. After a few moments of thought, she made a rather brazen plan.

Shifting, catlike, Hermione slipped out of Jon's grip. Before she knew it, she had elegantly straddled him, her skin coming in full contact with his shapely buttocks. Jon started awake, though his eyes were still closed, and Hermione slid her hands up his back and lowered herself down until she was lying on top of him.Hermione felt dirty. I suppose that compared to last night, this is tame, though, she thought to herself.

Jon's eyes opened to reveal achingly cerulean blue eyes. He smiled slightly mischievously at her, still a bit bleary.

"Morning," she whispered in his ear.

"Good morning to you too, wildcat," Jon replied, smiling. Gently, he disentangled their two bodies so that both he and Hermione could sit up. The sheets pooled about Hermione's trim, curved waistline and Jon leaned in to kiss Hermione briefly, chaste but for her slightly open lips.

"You'd better go," Hermione said silkily to him, once he had pulled away. "I have to leave today." Jon nodded. Hermione wondered why he didn't even seem a bit hurt that she was dismissing him so easily. To her, this entire ordeal seemed horridly—soiled, and yet burningly cold.

"I suppose I'll see you next summer, or your next break, or whenever," Jon said as he raised himself from the bed and picked up a heap of his clothes from where they had been discarded the night before. Hermione smiled a pouty smile as he dressed, running her eyes over him though inside she wanted to look away.

"Owl me, love." Jon said, by way of farewell. She nodded and he grinned, a beautifully genuine thing. With a small pop, he Disapperated.

Hermione sighed deeply. It was going to take a while to get new to this lifestyle, even if the silk sheets did help. Hermione stood.

Pulling a bathrobe over her nakedness, Hermione opened the door which she instinctively knew to lead to her own bathroom. When she opened the door, she gasped.

It was a truly beautiful bath, all marble blackness. Hermione turned on the shower and stepped into the instantly perfect temperature water.

As she let the water was over her, Hermione thought about her temporary life. She hoped that Malfoy could deal, and learn that the Light side was in the right. This life certainly seems glamorous, Hermione noted. She wasn't really a glamorous person, but she could definitely deal. Come on, Hermione. Live it up while you have it.

This firmly good outlook on life stuck steadfastly on, Hermione got out of the shower and slipped into a rather floaty robe that comprised of several layers of sheer silk. She ran a hand through her hair, remembering from Hermione Malfoy's memory that she had used a Permanent Straightening Potion since she was eight and her had had become unruly. Hermione missed her loose curls, in a way. Her hair was sleek and straight and shiny, but it just wasn't her anymore. None of this life was.

Hermione applied light makeup—something that felt foreign to her but her hands seemed to have a mind of their own—and then, finally, gracefully opened the door of her room and stepped into the rest of Malfoy Manor.

It was an enormous place, and gorgeously built, in a cold, still way. Hermione's feet did not allow her to dawdle, however—she walked straight to the Breakfast Dining Hall without waiting to look about. As she entered the room, her father's voice greeted her.

"Hermione, how wonderful to see you," her father said, himself, yet—not.

"Gold morning, Father, Mother," she said, slipping into her seat. Her plate was already filled with an elegant, neat fruit salad and an impeccable omelet. She cut her omelet and was about to take a bite when her father's cool voice interrupted her.

"I thought I told you no—visitors—last night,"

"I'm sorry, Father, it must have slipped my mind. You should have knocked," she said, innocently. Her father gave her a hard look but said no more. Her mother's eyes gleamed and she looked as if she wanted to say something, but of course as a Trophy Wife, she wouldn't dare speak out.

The meal was conducted in silence. Once her father had stood—and he stood more proudly, now, Hermione noticed, and looked more aristocratic—she was dismissed from the table. As soon as she had gotten to the door, her mother, looking more polished and trim, not to mention out of place in riobes, grabbed her wrists.

"So? Who was it? Was he any good?" her mother breathed excitedly, always the gossip. Hermione laughed softly and told her mother the events of the past night. This seemed a ritual for the two—mother-daughter bonding time over sexual conquests, who would have thought? Hermione wondered, slightly amused.

"You'd better be off dear, the carriage is waiting for you. Owl me, wont you? Your father is at a—meeting, but he said to tell you goodbye and that he loves you," Her mother said, in her sophisticated but slightly ditzy manner. Hermione smiled at her mother, pecked her cheek, and got into the horseless carriage that was waiting for her.

On to Hogwarts, at last, Hermione thought, a bit relieved.

Thanks for reading thus far, guys! Now, the reason this has taken a while to post is because I'm having a bit of trouble with some stuff (O, the eloquence!) in the story. No, I don't mean writer's block, because this story is flowing pretty easily off my fingertips. The thing is, I'm having some trouble with some plot details, such as: Should Hermione's mother be Narcissa Malfoy? Or her own mother, only with Narcissa's attitude? Should Hermione be as close to Blaise? Should Draco be a virgin? Etc. I would appreciate it GREATLY if you would review me on these topics and others that you have ideas on. Also, if you want to be a complete luv, and want to help me work through these things right as I write the story, my email is lrmeg17 hotmail dot com, and my AIM is dAmned l0ve. If you're interested in helping, just leave a note in your review or email / IM me yourself! Thanks a lot, hope you liked it! Review if you'd be so kind!