Disclaimer: I make no profit from this, it's just for fun!
A/N: This chapter was surprisingly difficult to write. Of course, the huge calculus test Real Life threw at me might have had something to do with my lack of concentration…
A… Switched Chance
3. Surviving day one/2
Staring morosely up at the ceiling over Hermione's bed – which, weirdly enough he thought, was peppered with small fluorescent stars that would probably glow in the dark – Harry admitted ruefully that he should have known better than to try and sway a Granger woman on a matter she had made her mind up about.
Hermione was scary enough when she had decided something had to be done or not done (House-elves Liberation Movements came to mind), but her mother was ten times worse.
Right now, she was quite determined not to leave her ill daughter home alone, therefore her ill daughter would not be left home alone!
And she was so terribly logical about it. She didn't shout or anything, simply listed very calmly all of the good reason to have an adult around while suffering the flu: all of the good reason Harry couldn't realistically object to. Not once did she even mention what Harry had a strong suspicion was the real reason she wanted someone to watch over her daughter: namely, that she thought he/she wished to sneak to school despite the fever. He had to admit, it was something his Hermione would probably have attempted, though he himself couldn't decide whether it was hilarious or just sad.
Still, the end result was the same: he would not be left on his own. Whatever argument Harry might try, Hermione's Mum would have none of it, and the more he tried to press his point, the more persistent she became! Harry was really loathe to admit that he was no match for Dr. Granger, but the thinning of her lips was too much like her daughter to let him hope he might win this argument (or any argument, actually). And here I thought Hermione had learned that from McGonagall…
Of course, Harry's attempts at countering her arguments had been anything but logical. Partly because, well, logic had never been his strong point… and partly because of the headache pounding in his/her head – which he could really have done without. Apparently, his/her magic was very obliging in providing a convincing evidence of flu, but getting rid of said evidence wasn't nearly as easy. So 'pretending to be ill' was now 'actually being ill'. It sure didn't help with thinking straight. I'm trapped in my best friend's body, and the body won't cooperate. Just – great!
In the end, it had been agreed – over Harry's head, of course - that Hermione's Dad – whose name, he managed to gather, was David – would take a day off to look after her/him and if she/he wasn't better the following day, Hermione's Mum – who was, apparently, called Julia – would take her turn staying at home.
And all the while Harry, having been glared into submission by an adult, more refined and apparently multi-use version of Hermione's do-your-homework-now Look, was staring at the ceiling. And the stars on the ceiling. And feeling sorry for himself, while Hermione's parents plotted what to his reckoning amounted to a dastardly plan to make sure he would not have the time or occasion to contact his Hermione any time this century!
A few hours later, in front of a light lunch, Harry reflected that Life had a strange way of always throwing him down guilt trips.
He had been prepared to keep wallowing in self-pity the whole day. After all, he hadn't gotten his way, he hadn't gotten his wish of solitude, he hadn't been able to do any soul-searching, thought-ordering, clever-plan-making, he hadn't been able to do anything about his highly problematic situation! Worse of all, he was still on his own with no Hermione on sight! It should have been a horrible morning!
He wished he could say it had been terrible, he really did. But the truth… the truth was, it had been one of the best mornings of his life.
David Granger had brought upstairs deliciously cool apple juice in big, colourful glasses. He had adjusted the curtains so the room was cast in half-light, neither too dim nor in full sunlight. He had made sure to help his 'daughter' take the agreed-upon pills to reduce 'her' fever. He had fussed over 'her' until he was assured that 'she' was as comfortable as 'her' illness would allow.
Harry was thankful that the redness in his/her cheeks was taken as feverish flush rather than the embarrassed blush it really was. He had no idea how to deal with the coddling. It was… disconcerting to be the central focus of a grown-up like this, the only concern of someone. And… he couldn't help loving every minute of it.
He wondered if being miserable out of guilt for taking all this away from Hermione (temporarily only! he reminded himself sternly) could be considered punishment enough for how much he was enjoying it.
Then…
Then David Granger took down a well-worn book from a nearby shelf, commenting about old favourites being needed in time of distress, and with a delighted smile started reading aloud: "In a hole in the ground, there lived a Hobbit…"
And Harry forgot everything, too captivated by the enthralling tale, and the engaging characters, and Dr. Granger's warm voice, and the sheer, delicious novelty of being read to, to really care about anything else just then, important or not.
Or to remember to be properly upset at the lack of solitude and missed opportunities.
As it turned out, his 'bad luck' wasn't to last though, and he went back to brood and worry and plot right after lunch, for early afternoon found David Granger dozing on an armchair, his breath almost but not entirely forming light snores. Not ten minutes later, Harry was quietly creeping downstairs, familiarizing himself with Hermione's body as he tried to reach the telephone and make the most of this chance.
Neither his headache nor the fuzzy feeling of being feverish had disappeared yet, so he wasn't surprised that a small voice in his mind – the sensible, level-headed, Hermione-like Voice of Reason – was pointing out what a bad idea it was to try and contact the Dursleys in his state, and without a proper plan.
Predictably, he chose to ignore it, shushing it with a stern thought that he did have a plan. Which was true, sort of: he had kind of vaguely put together an idea that might work, with a lot of luck, but nevertheless had several gaping holes.
He was going to claim that he was a representative from a firm producing toys, conducting a survey among the children of Surrey, and offering a prize he knew Dudley would want if 'a' child would answer a few questions. Hopefully, Aunt Petunia wouldn't slam the phone down on his first words. Hopefully, she wouldn't question his girl-like voice. Hopefully, Dudley would hear what it was about and pitch a fit to get the prize, but then not want to answer boring questions, thus dumping the 'chore' on Harry. Hopefully, Hermione would be smart enough to play along. Hopefully…
Had he been feeling better, he would have realized how sketchy the idea was, but as it is, he was already dialling the once-familiar number.
The phone rang…
Please let them fall for it…
…and rang…
Please don't let Dr. Granger wake up yet…
…and rang…
Please let Hermione be there…
…and rang…
Please let her be all right…
…and rang…
Where are they, surely Aunt Petunia should have answered by now…
…and rang…
What's that noise? Is Dr. Granger waking up?
…and rang…
Where the hell are they?
Impatiently fiddling with the scraps of paper on the small table supporting the telephone, Harry's eyes fell on a calendar. 23rd of June 1991… well at least I know for sure when we are…
The phone was still ringing.
What's taking them so long? He's bound to wake up at this rate…
How am I going to explain if he comes down?
Why the fuck don't they answer the bloody phone?
Wait… 23rd of June… it's Dudley's birthday…
He froze. Fuck! Dudley's birthday. Dudley's eleventh birthday. They were at the bloody zoo! Damn!
Of all the days…
Resigned, he put the phone down and made his way upstairs again.
What was he to do now?
The zoo episode had been a bloody disaster! He'd been locked in his cupboard for longer than he cared to remember! How was he going to contact Hermione if she was locked in the ruddy cupboard?
He was startled by a worried David Granger coming out of Hermione's bedroom, but luckily he/she was already upstairs and managed to mumble something convincing about toilet. Hermione's Dad relaxed immediately, then suggested with a warm smile that they watch a movie together, since 'she' looked a bit better.
Harry felt cherished and warmed and happy and horribly guilty when the man hugged him/her lightly and then scooped her/him in his arms to carry her/him downstairs.
His thoughts were whirling in his mind.
What was he to do now? How was he going to contact Hermione? What if he couldn't get in touch with her before Hogwarts? How was she going to cope with the Dursleys? Would the Grangers notice he wasn't their daughter? What could he do? How…? What…?
As the opening credits of Star Wars – apparently, another 'old favourite' of both Hermione and her Dad – appeared on the screen and he/she snuggled contentedly with her (Hermione's!) father, he very determinedly ignored the seductive voice at the back of his mind – the drawling one he had labelled his Inner Slytherin – which was slyly pointing out that it was no fault of his if they had come back on this day of all days, and there really was nothing he could do right now, so maybe, maybe he could just enjoy Hermione's parents for a while…
Sitting in the back of the Dursleys' car with Piers and Dudley, on the way to the zoo, trying not to attract attention, Hermione mused on the 'warning' that whale had given her – given Harry. 'Funny business', she guessed, meant accidental magic. Had Harry been punished every time his magic had manifested? Every minute spent with those three had Hermione's worry for her best friend increasing – and how had she never suspected? Well she had, in part, but not to this extent… Had Ron…? But she shied away from that thought: Ron's abandonment still hurt.
She tried for a moment to distract herself from the painful line of thought by listening to that whale complain about things: people at work, Harry, the council, Harry, the bank and Harry – good lord, 'repetitive' doesn't even cover it… – but she was soon back to her musings, only vaguely registering the new theme of that whale's complaints, motorbikes.
She needed to find Harry, make contact with him somehow. The sooner the better!
It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with families, which made it relatively easy to walk a little way apart from the Dursleys. 'Out of sight, out of mind', she hoped.
She remembered both her parents' telephone number and that of their practice, so if she could get her hands on a phone, she could either talk to Harry directly (assuming he was in her body, of course, but she was reasonably sure he was) or at least leave a message that he would hopefully understand.
She tried to think the possibilities through, as she out of habit read every sign near the tanks and cages, absently memorizing a few things she didn't already know about the animals.
She would have to word it just right, but she thought she could get her mother to pass it on, perhaps pretending she… he was a classmate of Hermione's. That meant she needed to find a phone, for she was rather convinced that it would be next to impossible to use the one at the Dursleys. Same for the one at whatever school Harry attended, they don't just let children call whoever they want, after all. So a public phone here at the zoo was likely her best chance for Merlin knew how long…
Sadly, by lunchtime she hadn't managed to locate one and had no choice but to join the Dursleys in the zoo restaurant, where she barely kept her composure as she was treated to another Dudley-tantrum since, apparently, Ball of Lard's knickerbockers glory wasn't big enough.
After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and stone, and as soon as she took two steps in Hermione froze, hit by a thought that chased all others from her mind.
Parseltongue.
Harry could talk to snakes. Could she? Meaning… she as she was now, in Harry's body? Nobody knew much about Parseltongue… was it something in the blood, like the Slytherins thought? In that case she should be able to use the weird language now, seeing as she had Harry's blood…
Or not? Harry wasn't of Slytherin line, at least not as far as they knew, which seemed to argue against the importance of blood…
Maybe it was something in the magic? But then… the question became, did she have her own magic, or Harry's? Was magic linked to the body or the mind? She couldn't remember ever reading anything about it… the Wizarding World as a whole didn't seem too keen on figuring out how magic worked after all.
Or at least they weren't interested in the whys.
They were content with visible effects and a good deal of prejudice, sometimes disguised as 'tradition'.
Maybe she could try and develop a 'Science of Magic' when this mess with switched bodies and time meddling and let's not forget the war, was over…
In the meanwhile, she was left wondering about her current situation, and Parseltongue.
She closed her eyes and tried to listen to the hissing sounds around her.
From what she remembered, Harry had usually been able to make out words somewhat instinctually. Yet she could not – all she understood were the somewhat hushed human conversations around her, and the not so hushed whining of Harry's cousin, who had quickly found the largest snake in the place among the various huge, poisonous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons but was now apparently disappointed that the glistening brown coils, that could have easily crushed Harry's uncle's car into a dustbin, wouldn't budge.
She snorted. The poor snake was clearly fast asleep and rapping the glass smartly with their knuckles wasn't likely to change this.
She moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the snake. She wondered if it was the one Harry had accidentally set on his cousin in the first timeline. She peered at the little sign next to the glass. Yep. Boa Constrictor, Brazil. It was probably the one.
The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on a level with hers… with Harry's.
She felt her heart race. This was it. It was going to talk to her. She was finally going to know what it was like. She tried to contain her excitement, but it wasn't easy. She had wondered so often, and been hopelessly jealous that Harry could have such an experience but she couldn't, and now she was going to know what it was like to talk to a snake!
Then, just as slowly, the snake lowered itself again and went back to sleep.
Hermione bit her (Harry's) lip hard and valiantly fought back the disappointment. Maybe this wasn't the snake, maybe it was another one, maybe this one was just too sleepy…
But even as she moved quickly to the next tank, something told her it wouldn't work. The hissing sounds would remain just that – sounds, incomprehensible, out of her reach.
She wasn't a Parselspeaker.
She moved through the entire reptile house – she was nothing but thorough in her research, after all – and tried hard to listen to the various snakes but to no avail.
She determinedly blinked away the silly tears of disappointment. This was ridiculous. She had always known she would not get any knowledge connected with that particular gift, unless Harry decided to share. She shouldn't have expected – she shouldn't have let herself hope.
And, she reminded herself, it was good data. She now knew without a doubt that the gift of Parseltongue was not connected to the body. So obviously it wasn't passed down through blood – and wouldn't the Pureblood Supremacists have a fit at that?
But it was a documented fact that the ability was inherited, so perhaps… perhaps it went down through magic?
That would suggest a genetical basis for magic, but how would Muggleborns come about in that case? Squibs she could explain as 'defective', as horrible as that sounded, people whose genes for 'magic' were somehow missing or blocked or something. But Muggleborns?
Were all humans, including Muggles, equipped with 'magic' genes, perhaps, but only some had them active? Was it something like dominant/submissive genes? This bore consideration…
Or perhaps… perhaps it wasn't magic after all. If, as she had come to think in her previous life, magic did not have a genetical explanation, then it couldn't be inherited, and a gift like Parseltongue wouldn't be linked to magic. But then what? It clearly wasn't blood…
The mind? Or perhaps the soul? But she knew next to nothing about the soul. She wasn't even sure how to define such a thing. She hadn't had a religious education, and her philosophical studies had taken a back seat to the Hogwarts curriculum, obviously. She really needed some good books on the topic, it was frustrating to be so lost. But she would probably have to go the Muggle route, Soul Magic was a Forbidden Art…
She kept herself entertained with her musings all through the rest of the day and the drive back and the meagre dinner of cold bread and cheese Harry's aunt threw at her/him. By the time she/he was sent to the cupboard for the night, she had managed to overcome the disappointment completely and almost wished for an opportunity to test Harry's skill with snakes while he was in her body…
It was at this point in her contemplations that she rather suddenly realized she had completely forgot about contacting her parents and had probably missed her only chance at finding a public phone!
She collapsed groaning on the cot.
Great going, Granger. Brilliant. Now what?
A/N: In case someone had missed it, the incipit David Granger reads aloud is, of course, taken from J. R. R. Tolkien's 'The Hobbit'.