Disclaimer:I own nothing! All of it (besides the bad writing) belongs to JK Rowling. I'm just a fan borrowing her lovely characters to morph them into a horrendous story line made by my sick, sick mind.

Identity Crisis

Prologue

The moment he woke up, Harry Potter immediately knew that something was significantly different about him this morning than when he had gone to bed the previous night. At first he had thought maybe it was the fact that he had woken up on his back, which had never been a common occurrence with the green-eyed boy, as generally he was a sleep-on-the-stomach kind of bloke. Then he wondered if it was perhaps that the sun streaming in through his crimson bed curtains was covering his entire blanket-clad torso, making him feel rather hot and even a bit tingly. These two excuses were hardly convincing, though, as they couldn't explain the rather odd, heavy feeling he had about his chest, nor the fact that when he opened his eyes blurrily and stared down at his feet, he couldn't see them. Instead of the usual view of his rather disproportional feet – though thankfully they weren't nearly as large as his friend Ron's – sticking up near the foot of his bed, he found himself staring down at two rather distinct-shaped lumps, covered by the blanket pulled up snugly to his chin, and situated not three inches away from his face.

This, understandably, was rather alarming for the Gryffindor boy, as he had never awakened to such a sight before. Bolting upright in his bed, Harry groped madly about his nightstand for his round-rimmed spectacles, almost rendering them useless as he shoved them forcefully onto his face, nearly cracking the lenses in his desperation to look down at his chest. Sitting up straighter and allowing the blanket to fall back down to the mattress, Harry stared down in growing horror at the two sizable mounds straining against the confines of his (previously) baggy pajama top, the girth of them causing his shoulders to hunch almost the second he sat up.

Oh hell, what's happened now? Harry asked himself as he blinked confusedly down at his chest. The sensible part of his brain – the little part of him that had lived ten years in the Muggle world and still didn't quite believe in magic – was saying that oh no, he had tumors. The realistic part of his brain – the one that had spent the last six years in the wizarding world and knew all about nasty spells and curses – told Harry quite calmly that he had been hexed during the night by one of his dorm mates, who must have come across this bizarre spell in one of Hogwarts' many library books, and had apparently found it to be an excellent practical joke opportunity. And a third part of his brain – the one part in his mind that all boys acquired around the time of puberty – was screaming insistently into his head that bleeding Merlin's balls he had boobs!

This little realization had Harry gaping down at his chest – bosom? – in disbelief. Surely this was a dream, he thought frantically to himself. It couldn't be possible … there was simply no way that he could go to bed one night and wake up with basoomers the next morning! He'd never even heard of such a thing happening before. No possible way – there must be an explanation …

Perhaps it was an illusion? Yes, that must be it. Feeling relieved, and chortling slightly at his previous panic, Harry patted at his pajama top, expecting his hand to fall right through his illusionary breasts and land on his flat and obviously-male chest. When his hand came into contact with an abundance of soft skin instead of the expected hard muscle (or what he tried to convince himself to be muscle), Harry immediately felt squicked, and the first thought to cross his mind was, So that's what a boob feels like, quickly followed by, Bloody hell, my first feel is my own basoomer, and, Eurgh, how pathetically disgusting, soon bringing up the rear.

So, definitely not an illusion, Harry decided, as he watched his own hand cup and squeeze a decidedly not illusionary boob. He was very alarmed at the feeling of this cup and squeeze, and found himself wondering why girls ever allowed boys to touch their chests, as Harry found the sensation to be rather odd and not the least bit pleasant. Though perhaps it was because he was doing the cupping and squeezing to his own … er, lump (Harry couldn't handle the thought of his boob), that was making it feel so odd. Did girls not grab their own breasts? Images of various witches he knew cupping and squeezing their own basoomers soon popped into his hormone-riddled, teenaged-male mind, and though he was rather preoccupied with his own lump problem, Harry was nonetheless feeling very hot around the face all of a sudden.

Hurriedly turning away from that line of thought, Harry forced himself to concentrate on the problem at hand. If the lumps weren't an illusion – as the green-eyed boy could definitely feel them (this reminded him to remove his still-squeezing hand back down to the blankets before he completely irked himself out) – then what else could have caused them? Perhaps Transfiguration? McGonagall had been teaching them how to switch one object's volume and texture into a completely different object during their last few lessons … maybe that was what had happened? Maybe his new bosom had started out its life as a couple pairs of dirty socks?

This image was definitely the most disturbing to Harry, as his horror-inflicted mind began wild thoughts of him groping Ron's dirty Quidditch socks, and he quickly put a stop to that line of thought, determined not to make himself sick all over his sheets. And anyway, he doubted very much that any of his dormmates would be capable of performing this tricky bit of Transfiguration, as unless his mind was deceiving him, the only one of his dormmates that had managed to actually perform the spell had been Dean Thomas, and even then the other boy had admitted that his transfigured cushion had looked more like a pain-inducing toothbrush, and not the dinner fork it was supposed to be.

So if it wasn't an illusion or Transfiguration – and it most definitely could not be a potion, as Harry's constant run-ins with the dreaded Romilda Vance and her love potions last year had made him more than a little wary, prone to testing all his food and drink before consuming it – then the only thing left was a curse. Which curse, Harry had no idea. How the hell it had been cast on him up in Gryffindor Tower (provided it hadn't been one of his pranking dormmates) was another question he couldn't answer, as well as if he had been the only person at Hogwarts affected, or if it had even been directed at him in the first place. He didn't even know what giving him rather prominent tits was supposed to accomplish. Was it just a practical joke, meant to make Harry blush and keep things lively up in Gryffindor Tower until the next party? Had it been one of the many females at Hogwarts, determined to get back at him for a possible slight he hadn't even realized he'd given? Or had it been meant to humiliate him in front of the entire school? This kind of curse was just something Harry's dearest rival at Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy, would enjoy immensely, and could easily be attainable for the blonde Slytherin, what with all the Dark books Malfoy was rumoured to own in his possession.

All these questions were running through Harry's mind in rapid succession, and although he knew that there was a simple way for him to go and get the answers he needed, he was all the same very hesitant to do so, because going out to get answers meant that he had to actually leave the privacy of his bed curtains, and while he was good friends with all his dormmates, he didn't really fancy seeing the looks on their faces when he emerged from his bed sporting brand-new basoomers that … for the love of Merlin JIGGLED if he so much as breathed too hard. No, he was definitely loathe to leave the security of his bed, and so he decided that perhaps it would be better to just wait for his friends to wake up and either leave without him or fling open his curtains and get the mad laughing out of their systems before they made it down to the Great Hall for breakfast.

As it turned out, Harry didn't have to wait long for his friends to wake up. And as they did, an answer to one of Harry's many questions was answered for him before he even left the room: apparently, if Seamus Finnigan's bewildered yell of, "Holy fuck, I've got knockers!" was anything to go by, Harry wasn't the only bloke in Gryffindor affected by this mysterious curse.

A yelp quickly followed by mad scrambling next to Harry's bed informed the green-eyed boy that Ron had apparently woken up to his two new appendages as well, and before Harry could pull back his curtains to confront and try to calm his best mate, the red fabric was wrenched apart and Ron's freckled self appeared, his face flushed as red as his hair and his eyes widened in terror. Beneath Ron's scruffy pajama top were two mounds that danced around merrily as the lanky boy took deep, heaving, panic-stricken breaths.

"Harry!" the redhead cried, his voice much more high-pitched than normal, though Harry couldn't tell if it was due to the effects of the curse or Ron's panic. "M-m-my-my … m-my –"

"I know Ron," Harry said wearily, his own voice much softer than usual, though he supposed that could just be shock. He gestured to his own … dilemma before continuing. "I've got them as well. It must be a curse, though I don't know which –"

Ron cut him off, waving his large freckled hands around like a crazed madman. "Th-that's the least of my problems, mate!" he squeaked out. Before Harry could even frown at this statement and wonder what could be worse than having boobs, Ron glanced edgily around at their other panicking dormmates before leaning in even further to Harry and whispering desperately, "Harry – my bits are gone!"

Harry felt his eyes widen comically at this new piece of information, and with a renewed sense of panic, he shot his hand down to his crotch, his stomach clenching painfully when he felt the distinct lack of – well – anything down there. In the horrifying and confusing realization of acquiring new … female body parts, Harry had completely ignored the fact that, indeed, his bits were missing as well. This new situation Harry had woken up to suddenly seemed a lot worse. The whole thing had seemed much more manageable when he'd simply assumed that someone had given him boobs. Sure it was embarrassing, but he'd figured that worse came to worse, he could just have Madam Pomfrey hex the breasts off and be done with the whole affair by his afternoon classes. But this … this was much worse. Instead of giving him and his dormmates each a new bosom, the mysterious curse had taken it to the next level.

It had turned them all into girls.

Auhor's Notes: Liked it? Hated it? Want to smother me in my sleep and rid the world of my sick and twisted mind? Well, leave me a review and tell me what you think! Let me know if I should continue, or just stop while I'm ahead. Remember, this is my first fan fic, so please go easy on me!