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 :Soo, soo sorry for the delay. I won't lie and say I was entirely justified in taking so long, but I did have midterms, a temporarily broken computer, and also I had written five pages of this when—oh no!—I deleted it. I had to rewrite the entire thing, and it did change a bit drastically…but more about that later. I hope you like this, it was a bit of a bitch to write!

Draco tapped his fingers nervously on the table of the gaudy, cavernous conference room. He was five minutes early, as usual. It was a bit odd being early; Draco was used to rushing in at the last minute—not that he looked hurried, or flushed, or anything. That wasn't his style. Not that his style mattered, not now and here.

"Ah, Mr. Granger, glad to see you are on time," Professor McGonagall bustled in, carrying several packets of paper, which she spread on the table.

Draco acknowledged her with a nod and a weak smile. What does she expect us to do? He wondered.

"Now, we should wait for Miss Malfoy, who is, as usual…" Professor McGonagall trailed off as Hermione slid into the room. "Late," she finished, with a firm look of disapproval clear on her features.

"Sorry, Professor," drawled Hermione lazily. Draco inwardly bristled. That was his drawl!

"Since you are both here, however delayed, we should really begin so that we can fit everything in. First, you will need to each fill out these packets—one of them requires you to work together—and then, when you are done, you will move on to the next task. You should finish at about ten-thirty, at which time I will come to instruct you further. Now, I must be off, seeing as I have a rather rowdy class of first years to teach," Professor McGonagall quickly swept off, leaving no time for questions or protests.

Draco sat heavily down, and picked up a packet. Hermione did the same, albeit more gracefully.

"Do they really expect us to do all this utter bollocks?" Hermione asked in annoyance.

"Well, clearly they do, as I don't think—"

"Look, Mudblood, it was a rhetorical question. I'm sure you, of all people, know what that is?"

"Yes, of course, but I thought—well, it doesn't matter. Just—let's fill out the individual packets and we can deal with each other later," Draco sighed. Hermione pursed her lips but did not argue.

Draco filled out his packet, which included everything from 'What are your plans for once you graduate?' to 'What is your favorite flavor 'Bertie Bott's Every-Flavored Beans?

His mind, however, was not on what he was doing. He has found that his Granger-mind concentrated so thoroughly that his real mind could go on thinking with no real conflict.

How can I get her to trust me? I'm her, and she's me, so that should help…Ugh, this is way too confusing. Draco knew that he wouldn't trust the Mudblood in any circumstance that he could think of. So…that left stealing the booklet, which wasn't something he fancied—the Malfoy temper was quite vicious—or making her think that she was manipulating him.

That would work. But how could he do that?

His thoughts were interrupted by Hermione slapping her packet on the table. "I'm done," she announced.

"Me too," he replied, still thinking.

"Well, Granger, let's get a start on the last packet," Hermione ordered nonchalantly. He marveled at her—his—skill to make even the last name an insult. "You read and write. I'll do the thinking, Mudblood,"

"Don't you think that insults getting rather old?" he asked crossly.

"Why, Mudblood," she said lowly. "Don't you see? Years and years will pass. And you will always be a Mudblood,"

"Yes, and years and years will pass and you'll always be an arrogant, death-eating prat," he snapped. Far from angering her, it seemed that she was amused.

"'Death-eating' isn't a word, you know," she informed him. He noted that she didn't bother denying it.

"Well, whatever. Let's just do this bloody packet," he muttered irritably. "One. What plans do you have for the year?"

"The normal stuff," Hermione said carelessly. "A few Balls, Halloween feast, Quidditch Cup, Hogsmeade weekends. Nothing too new or fancy, that's tacky,"

"We-ell," Draco said, considering. "Wouldn't a new tradition be fun, though?"

"No."

Draco just sighed and nodded. It was easier to agree than to fight.

oooooooooooo

"I trust you are finished?" McGonagall's voice came from the door, starting both Draco and Hermione, who were each lost in thought.

"Yes, Professor," Hermione said lazily.

"Good. If you will follow me, please, I will instruct you what to do upon arriving at our destination," McGonagall told them, looking sharply at Hermione, who was inspecting her nails.

Hermione rose after Draco and followed the pair out sullenly. Inside, however, she was brimming with question, the primary one being 'What is Draco planning?' Because she knew he was planning something. He had the look on his face that she always got when she had thought of something, something big.

I suppose the question isn't so much what he's planning, but how I can figure it out…

"Here we are," announced Professor McGonagall. They were standing before a large, gilt-framed portrait. The portrait was a vividly painted flower garden, with a boy and girl no older than five or six holding hands by a bed of petunias. "Head's Secret," McGonagall told the portrait. The little girl giggled, then swung open to reveal…

It was a gigantic, open study. The room had six enormous walls. There were ten or twelve rows of bookcases, a small stone fireplace surrounded by two large, comfortable armchairs and a coffee table. It had a high-domed, white ceiling and there appeared to be a door about halfway up the dome.

This was not what made the room unique. These details were nearly inconsequential compared to the walls.

Four walls were completely filled with paintings, neon Technicolor and black and white alike. It was like a patchwork quilt, each square about 6 x 6 inches. They seamlessly fit together, although each was different—quite a few depicted people, but others showed scenes, still-lifes, flags, swirls of color. They covered the expansive walls all the way to where the dome began.

The other two walls were covered with white, black-traced blocks of the same size, each with a number—a year, Hermione assumed. Professor McGonagall stepped smartly up to one that read '1998' and tapped it twice with her wand. It expanded to about four times larger than previously.

"This," she said proudly, "is your Head Block. There is one for every year dating back to the First Head Boy and Girl. Over the course of the year, a painting will form—don't look at me like that, Miss Malfoy, you won't be drawing it—from events, alliances, the like. We, the faculty, ask that you check its progress now and again. The room we are in is the Head's Study; you may come here as frequently as you like but none excepting you two may know about it. Questions?"

"The painting will form?" sneered Hermione.

"Yes, Miss Malfoy. It is highly complicated and advanced magic; tiny bit by tiny bit, it will form. For example, say perhaps you become friends from enemies," she said looking pointedly at them. "The painting would most likely show a pair of disembodied, entwined hands. Yes, Mr. Granger?"

"What's the door up there for?" he asked, pointing. Hermione squinted at it; it seemed very high up. She could see that the door was a pale gray, barely contrasting with the white dome—which, she noticed, also had blocks—and had a prominent gold doorknob.

"Ah, that you will have to discover yourself. You won't be able to reach it until the last day of term," she added when it looked like Draco was about to scale the walls himself to see.

"Professor," Hermione started. "How many more blocks are there? There are years, I see, so does it show when exactly the school will fall?"

"An excellent question, Miss Malfoy," McGonagall answered stiffly. "These walls are expanding, and no, it does not predict what year the school will close. Hopefully, never. Now, if you have no further questions, I will leave you t explore for an hour. I believe Professor Dumbledore will fetch you after that."

Without waiting for a reply, she swept away.

Hermione sighed and dropped into an armchair. Draco went up to a wall and began examining the paintings.

"Fascinating," he whispered in awe. Hermione was surprised that her Malfoy side agreed with this. The idea of a painting creating itself based on events was certainly amazing.

Hermione rose too, a little hesitantly. She stepped toward a different wall, and saw that in the left hand corner there was still a tiny date.

The wall she faced appeared to be the oldest. One of the bottommost squares read "999," which Hermione herself happened to know was only about seven years prior to the founding. Her eyes scanned the wall. One square caught her eye.

It was very vibrantly colored. Strands of crimson red between flashes of emerald green colored a black-traced painting of a young woman, amazingly detailed. She looked very still and very dead, her skin almost waxy under the bright coloring. Hermione was so drawn to the picture that she didn't hear Draco approach her.

"The date says 1019. That was when the killing curse was formed, or used, or something, according to some theories," he said softly.

Hermione tried to shrug. "I don't want a lecture, save it for someone who cares," she managed, but her throat seemed very dry. And it wasn't just the Hermione Granger who felt like that. It was the Malfoy in her, too.

Draco wandered over to the bookshelves, exclaiming in delight that he realized that the bookshelves were thought-triggered—if a person was searching for books on dragon hide, for example, numerous books of that subject would appear.

Hermione remained rooted to the walls. Her eyes drew out ones in red, green, grey, black. The ones she knew must be about death. She examined each wall, ignoring the multitude of happier, prettier, more flowery artworks.

She began shaking—barely, very barely—when she saw a particularly realistic drawing of a battle scene, done only in red and gray and white and black.

There were individual people on that battle scene and she could see their scars, see their bloody burns, see their writhing in the throes of death. Wizards had their wands drawn but there were swords, too, dripping with blood and potion and god knew what else.

She only looked away from the painting when Dumbledore appeared and, seeing her state, gently insisted that she go back to her room and relax. She let him guide her there, Draco trailing helplessly like a wounded puppy, no doubt feeling guilty for not noticing earlier her reactions. Not that he would have; her Malfoy training showed through and she was sure the old man was simply some kind of empathy or something.

Hermione climbed into her bed as soon as she arrived in her room, her body shivering still, no matter how many blankets she piled on top of her. She couldn't get the figures out of her mind. They seemed branded onto the insides of her eyelids and her thoughts—Malfoy and Granger alike—were swirling.

Oh, God, I'm going to be doing that soon. It was her Malfoy side who registered it first.

She was violently ill. It didn't seem to make her feel any calmer. "Scourgify," she muttered.

Blaise found her in that state about seven hours later.

"Malfoy?" he asked, a little nervously. He hadn't, after all, ever seen her truly break her mask—not in this way, at any rate.

Hermione turned to him, her eyes wide with knowing. She didn't know how she was so affected by one painting.

"Blaise," she rasped. "Blaise. I—it was horrible,"

"I'm, uh, not so good with this kind of thing, Hermione. I just—I'm not the lets-confide-all-our-fears kind of friend. But I'm here," he said, awkwardly. Hermione gestured for him to come near. He complied, albeit a little hesitantly.

Hermione hugged him. He seemed very, very surprised.

"Sorry," she whispered. "I just—kind of needed it,"

"I, uh, understand," Blaise replied uncomfortably. "Hermione, I'd better go, it's almost curfew, I'll see you tomorrow." He hastily withdrew his arms from around her, kissed her forehead in a way that was too sensual to be very comforting, and left.

Hermione suddenly stiffened. You fool, her Malfoy side screamed. That was not the act of a dignified, pure-blooded lady! That was not the act of a Malfoy. How could you firstly feel that way—and secondly react like that!

So Malfoy feels the pressure to be something, too, Hermione thought faintly.

Hermione slammed her fist against the headboard of her bed. It felt oddly comforting. She bore the pain well.

ooooooooooo

Draco didn't have much else to do once Hermione left. The headmaster had planned some group-activities for them, he had learned, but now that she was gone he was left to simply explore the Head's Study.

He hadn't stayed long. It was fascinating, but it wasn't like he could never return and also—he wasn't really in the mood to explore. The whole Hermione-ordeal weighed heavily on his mind and he couldn't concentrate on the fascinating book he had found about Ancient Magic.

He never noticed that she was staring far too long at the painting, or that she was trembling. He supposed it was a tribute to his Malfoy-mask. He knew she hadn't cried—he would never, although he supposed some situations must be different, since she was a girl.

Nonetheless, it was just plain weird to see 'himself' reacting that way. He hadn't really looked very well at the square, but it must have triggered something in him because he could see how much it affected her—and, in a way he supposed, him.

The Malfoy-mask was the whole package, from calm body movement to expressions that revealed absolutely nothing about himself. He was taught it when he was very young; quickly, it had become second nature to him. Hell, these days, he was so good at it that he barely flushed pink when humiliated.

So, since the mask was so entire, it was no wonder he hadn't noticed her state before. But—when he had, he saw something very disturbing. Her eyes, usually cold and emotionless, were filled with somethingsome feeling. He couldn't name it but it looked a bit like she was being stabbed and then having the knife wrenched around, and she couldn't stop it.

That wasn't exactly what scared Draco the most.

What scared him was that he thought he might actually feel sorry for her. For a moment, he had forgotten that she was him and he was her—God, that's confusing to think—and he had actually felt sorry for Granger.

Damn Gryffindors were making him loose his touch.

ooooooooo

Meanwhile, Harry Potter jolted awake from his sleep, his face jammed uncomfortably in his open Transfiguration textbook. He had fallen asleep studying.

He had had a dream—what was it? There was something odd, something about Malfoy—but no, it was Draco, wasn't it? It was all very vivid and he could see—someone, from above.

His stomach twisted as he remembered the events from the dream. A green flash, a crimson background, a fading scream. A feminine voice cried "Malfoy!" and was replied by a masculine voice—was it Draco's?—telling her, "Shag off, would you? I don't want to see your face," in a tone most uncharacteristic of the normally docile boy. There was a knife—definitely a knife—and a vial, filled with a light blue potion, or poison, perhaps?

It was all so confusing. Harry sighed; dreams were so unreliable. He shook his head and picked up where he had left off on his homework.

Hey, I hope this wasn't too bad. I had originally planned something very different—my first draft involved them having to cook with the house elves!—but this came tumbling out onto the paper. I hope it doesn't seem too boring, or OOC, or whatever. I just want to say, in my defense, that I obviously can't be completely in character, since Hermione being a female and Draco being a male complicates things—situations where Hermione might cry wouldn't have the same affect on Draco, after all! Well, this is incredibly long, so I'll just say thanks for reading and reviewing, and once again I'm sorry for the wait!