Chapter 2

"My - lord?" Lucius said uncertainly, lowering the child and scrambling to his feet.

"You heard me," the Dark Lord said dismissively "your son will not be needed. From now on, our efforts will be focussed on tracking down this Potter boy. The information I received is from a trustworthy source, and once I eliminate this threat we may resume the sacrificial charms, but as for now, you may keep your heir." His mouth curled into a cruel smile as his red eyes bore down on Lucius, who hurriedly ducked his head.

"My lord. Thank you." he forced the words out, but they were bitter in his mouth. If only he could hand over the boy now…but he would not be rewarded. He could think of no plausible excuse for having tried to hand over Harry Potter when he had been specifically asked to give Draco.

After all his efforts…what were the odds that the family he chose partly just because they were on Diagon Alley that day, and partly because they would never be forced to choose to sacrifice their son, would be the family marked for death?

…000...

Harry couldn't help feeling pleased when he noticed his refection on the side of Vernon's car. He'd been washing it all afternoon and had almost finished polishing it. He could smell the aroma of pizza coming from the house, and even though he knew he'd probably only get a few leftovers, he would be happy to have them because it was the one food he missed when he was in the wizarding world. Maybe he would ask Dobby to try and persuade the Hogwarts house elves to make it for the school's dinner one night.

He patted down his hair in awe, leaning down to take abetter look at his reflection in the car's side mirror. It had never looked so…flat. It even looked silky. It felt silky.

He wasn't sure what to think. Maybe he had used Aunt Petunia's shampoo by accident. He winced, thinking of what might happen if she noticed.

He'd liked that his hair looked just like his dad's had, but it would be nice if he could tame it like this every now and again so that people like Mrs Weasley and Aunt Petunia wouldn't attack him with combs and hairbrushes whenever he had to go somewhere important.

Oh well, I might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

…000...

The Dark Lord could not find the Potter family…I could not either…it was a hopeless cycle of events, and the Dark Lord could not know that I was trying so hard to complete the mission not for him, but for you, my son.

Yet now I sit at my desk, the night after the night you were to be killed. I was there, in Godric's Hollow, but I did not dare to snatch you from beneath my masters wand, but no matter…you, my miraculous son, survived.

I had no way of knowing that you were alive…I fled in shame…my son and my master were both dead to my eyes, and only hours later did I find out the truth.

By that time it was too late - you had been placed into care in a safe place which I could not access. Perhaps it was for the best. I know that the child was spoilt, and while I do not wish that for you, at least you will have been happy. No doubt the guardians of Potter will have smothered you with gifts of all descriptions.

Forget them. I tell you, those gifts are truly from I, who is unable to give you any. They are empty tokens from people to a boy who you are not, but I am your father, and I would have wanted to give you every gift you deserve. What is more, your blood is Pure. I cannot know what you have been brought up to believe, but I suspect the worst. Know only that you are special, and wizards of your calibre are rare. Whatever you think you know or believe on the subject, as your father I beg you to forget it and research it further with an open mind and you will uncover a truth that shakes you to the bone. I grew up with the knowledge myself, but when you find it, you will understand.

Lastly my son, I must let you know that you cannot speak to me of this. I have spent the past three years trying to break the enchantment I put on the Potter boy I have in my possession, and without any headway. I have tried to find you every day, but you are too well hidden. No spell, no owl, no spy, nor I myself can find you. The time has come to stop. Even now your mother spends her nights crying because she cannot understand why I can no longer show affection towards the child, and I myself am wracked by guilt, anger and even madness at times. It has to stop. Once I have written this letter and cast the charm to bring it to you on your fourteenth birthday - by which time the enchantment on your appearance should begin to dissolve - I plan to obliviate myself. I cannot live in such unhappiness, and whilst I would rather cast the other child aside, it would kill your mother, and so by making myself forget, I will be able to act the part better.

I am sorry I shall not be able to speak to you about this, but at least you can know when you see me that I am your real father and the love I show for you is real. It is time for you to take your place as a Malfoy, with your mother and I. The Potter boy will have received his instructions and knows he is to switch places with you discreetly.

Good luck, Dragon,

Your father.

…000...

On the morning of Draco's fourteenth birthday, he woke up in the peaceful silence of the manor.

It was always quiet at home - even when the whole family was there, there was so much space, and so many softly carpeted corridors between them that they might as well have been on different continents.

For a few minutes he lay curled on his side, comfortable with his head on his arm in his silk bed sheets, just listening to the silence. Somewhere on the grounds, he hear a peacock call and he gritted his teeth.

He didn't know why father kept the things, they were running rabid, multiplying all over the grounds and when he was a child the blasted creatures used to try to attack him if he didn't have a house elf with him. Even now he was always cautious when wandering around the grounds, through a childish fear he hadn't managed to shake off.

He was distracted from his thoughts by the sudden appearance of a letter on the bedclothes before him.

Draco stared at it as it sat innocently in front of him. He sat up, pushing himself up on his arm and searched the room quickly through narrowed eyes, but could see no sign of a owl. Perhaps it was a portkey to France? He doubted it, his parents liked to keep Paris for themselves, and he hadn't visited the town house since he was eight. Still, he could always hope.

He looked down at the letter, frowning and picked it up, nearly dropping it when he felt a jolt of magic spark at his finger tips, but was disappointed when it didn't react more to his touch other than a constant throb of slowly a fading charm. The parchment felt worn and, unrolling it, he sneezed as dust filled the air. Waving the dust away, he could see his father's handwriting and a smile settled on his face. Father had written to him after all!

To the one who calls himself by my son's name,

Draco stared at the letter, bemused.

You will recently have noticed some changes in your physical appearance…

From that point onward, Draco forgot that he could pause and put the letter down. His eyes skipped ahead, devouring the letter. The tingle of magic in the parchment began to frighten him as he began to understand the power of the charm that had brought it to him. His eyes skipped over the parchment as a cold dead weight clenched his heart. His eyes were moving across each line with more deliberation now, and as they reached the last paragraph, his hands started to shake.

In the end, you are not my son, and I forbid you to reveal this to anyone, bar the real Draco who should already know by now. You will return to your proper place quickly, and without fuss. In any case, you will have no choice but to do so as the dark spell I used cannot be used twice, and if you delay it will quickly become obvious who you really are. I don't know where Potter is, but you WILL find him. This is not your place, and if you remain here too long, the manor wards will deal with you and you will be forcibly ejected. You will know how unpleasant that is. I give you six months before that happens, though your appearance will betray you long before that. Find my son, and restore him to his rightful place.

Draco fell back onto his pillows in shock, the letter falling from his hand to the floor. It was all he could do to keep breathing.

Meanwhile, in Little Whinging, Harry Potter stared blankly at his own letter as it fluttered to the floor.

…000...

Once he had passed the obligatory period of denial, Harry couldn't ignore the signs of truth showing in his face. His skin had an unhealthy pallor that he had always identified with Malfoy, his hands were delicate, his face was thinner and more pointed. He couldn't argue that things were not as they should be when he first noticed flecks of white blond through his hair.

He almost couldn't believe how elated he'd been when he'd realised he no longer had to wear glasses. It felt like a curse now.

He couldn't remember if he'd ever felt so empty. Ever since he was a tiny child, the feelings of love and warmth towards the distant, blurred figures that were his mother and father had kept him company at night when he lay curled up alone in his cupboard. He'd only had the image of James and Lily Potter to attach those feelings to when Hagrid had given him his photo album in first year, but now the realisation of who those photographs should have shown gnawed at the back of his mind constantly and he couldn't feel anything but mixed disgust and confusion when he tried to raise those loving feelings again.

Lily and James hadn't even known. To them he would be a nobody, a strange teenager in the street who could have been anyone's son.

But why did it have to be their son?

He sat slumped against the hedge in the front garden. Aunt Petunia wouldn't like him sitting out here in view of passers by, but then she wasn't his aunt anymore

It gave him an odd feeling to know that somewhere his real parents were alive and well, but the disappointment curdled in his belly because of who they were. If their son was the wizarding version of Dudley, then Lucius and Narcissa were the wizard version of Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, but they were far more dangerous.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, Harry thought miserably.

He could feel tears welling up, but he forced them down. Hagrid had been wrong, and he, at eleven had known the truth. He was nothing special, no matter what Lucius and his pure-blood bigotry thought. No wonder it had felt too good to be true. He was 'just Harry' - but not even that. Now he was 'just - ' - but he couldn't even make himself say it. In any case, his real name was far too pretentious sounding for it to have the same effect.

Draco Malfoy would make a good Boy-Who-Lived. He loved the limelight, he knew how to please a crowd. He had been practically groomed for the role. All these years, Harry had judged him for his arrogant posturing, when he had more right to it than Harry. He couldn't even bring himself to scorn Malfoy for the way he had always insinuated Harry was milking his position for all it was worth. He wasn't wrong. He hadn't even really been Harry Potter.

The letter had said to expect a visit from the real Harry Potter shortly. Harry hoped he didn't come. He hoped he did. He wanted to tear him apart with his bare hands.

He'd never felt a hate so all-consuming. Who was this boy who had stolen his mother and father from him, stolen his very being, just by existing? Harry wanted to know him in intimate detail, starting by ripping his insides from his breathing body and examining them first hand.

He thought of the blond, sneering figure he'd hated all these years.

That was Lily's son.

He couldn't even be glad to lose Vernon and Petunia, because he would be getting something much worse in return.

He had to take deep breaths to suppress his tears whenever he thought of the letter. He'd have given anything, anything, for a letter so full of love and affection from his father. Well now he had one, but it was torture to read and it provided him with no comfort, only tears, and tonight nightmares no doubt.

Why had Lucius had to pick Harry Potter?

Days, weeks passed, and Harry watched his reflection grow less and less like him every day. His face developed a fine bone structure that it had never had before, and his scar had faded to a pinkish blur on his forehead.

The first time he received a letter addressed to Draco Malfoy, he'd been so surprised that he'd read it.

My son,

Calliope Montpellier has finally agreed to design a pair of dress robes for me for our Yule Ball this year, would you like me to order you some too? Her daughter is around your age and she seems quite eager for the pair of you to meet, and I know you'd love to visit Paris. A party or two with Sabine as your dance partner would be lovely, and it's not an unreasonable exchange for a gift of Montpelier robes, especially as your father was quite put out when he found out how much I spent last month. She's a pretty girl - red hair, but it's a lovely deep red, medium height and she's well known for her dress sense, although it's not surprising with Calliope as her mother.

I know you like ivory buttons but I think the crystal ones compliment the emerald silk better, I hope you don't mind if I order them instead of your usual?

Anyway, I hope Dippy hasn't been a nuisance, I know she likes to keep an eye on you but please remember she's the only elf that can make soufflés to an acceptable standard before you lose your temper at her. Remind her to keep tending the rose bushes for me darling.

Send a reply when you can,

Love,

Mother

He'd set down the letter and stared at it for a long time, hands shaking. It seemed that his magical signature had changed, now identifying him as Draco Malfoy, if he was now receiving his post. It probably wouldn't be long until he changed completely over.

The casual, prattling and rather shallow note from Narcissa was almost too much to bear. The woman he'd idolised, grown up to know as 'mum' was a stranger with no connection to him, and now he was receiving loving familial letters from a woman he'd always despised, and even though he was her son, she wasn't really thinking of him as she wrote it.

It hurt.

Harry had ignored the letter he received a week later. From the neatly calligraphed 'son' on the front, he deduced it was from Lucius. It came with a package, but he simply removed it from the owl and set it down. He didn't open it, or look at it again.

He didn't receive many more letters addressed to Draco Malfoy that summer, but those that he did, he set aside without a second glance. He vaguely wondered if Malfoy was receiving letters from Ron and Hermione. He tried not to think about it, or indeed anything, and threw himself into the gardening that Aunt Petunia wanted done.

The thought crossed his mind whether Malfoy was going to bother coming to see him at all, and if he didn't, how he was going to handle turning up at school looking like someone else. He didn't think he could stand to see the smarmy look on Malfoy's face when he came to gloat that he was Harry Potter now. He had all Harry's money, and his parents, and his fame. Now Harry just had money.

When Harry had checked the mirror one morning and saw his eyes had faded to an icy grey, he felt something die inside him along with the last remnant of his mother in his appearance. Even Vernon and Petunia noticed the changes in him after that, but Harry simply told them he was practicing morphing into other people as a disguise mechanism under Dumbledore's orders. That shut them up, but afterwards, Dudley couldn't seem to stop staring at him in fascination and Petunia forbade him to leave the house.

That made him wonder, not for the first time, what Dumbledore would have to say about all this, but he didn't even want to think about that complication. Sometimes he still lay awake, shaking just when he thought too much about everything that had happened, and what his friends would say.

A few days later, he received a roughly bundled package wrapped in brown paper, 'Draco Malfoy' scrawled on the outside in messy calligraphy, and on recognising his arch nemesis' handwriting, opened it.

Several letters addressed to Harry Potter fell out, one of which had been opened. He guessed this was his mail, which Malfoy had received. He blankly started reading the opened letter, then made his way through the realms of scolding from Hermione who seemed to take it as a personal affront that he hadn't been replying. There was one from the headmaster, telling him he'd pick Harry up to take to the platform on September 1st. Only one of the letters was from Ron, who although he also seemed concerned at the lack of response, included the information that Harry was to be collected on his birthday to go to The Burrow.

He dropped the letter in a mild panic; his birthday was in three days, and he couldn't let his friends see him like this. He was nearly fully blond, and his resemblance to Malfoy was unmistakeable.

He's spent a long time thinking about it already, but now was the time for decisions. He was worried about how Ron would react to finding out that Harry was really a Malfoy, but he thought - he hoped -his friends would ultimately both stand by him. Dumbledore though…would he be angry he had wasted so much time and effort on a boy who wasn't even Harry Potter? Where would that leave him? Would Dumbledore whisk away Draco Malfoy to be trained to defeat Voldemort? Where would Harry go? Would he be abandoned at the Malfoys' mercy?

He didn't think he could handle it, but he'd have to wait for Malfoy to bother his arse to come and visit him so that they could decide what to do. He didn't really know why he was so concerned that Malfoy should help him decide - he didn't give a toss for his rivals feelings on the matter. It was just that he felt completely and utterly lost as to what to do and he was holding out for the chance that Malfoy might have a good idea, if he could restrain himself from killing him. Also, there was no chance of any plan of Harry's working unless Malfoy cooperated.

His mood swings towards Draco Malfoy alternated between blinding, murderous rage and a pity for someone in the same position as he. He knew Malfoy looked up to his father, and he must love his parents in his own way. Whatever Malfoy was gaining by becoming Harry, he was losing some things too. It was just hard for Harry to remember that some times, especially when he stood to lose Ron and Hermione, which would be like losing his family twice.

One the one hand, if he told Dumbledore and his friends, there was a reasonable chance he could remain friends with Hermione and the Weasleys. There would be a few changes, and he'd have to deal with Malfoy having special treatment from Dumbledore while Harry might be cast aside somewhat, which would hurt. There was also the possibility - no, it was almost inevitable - that he'd have to play Malfoy's part to the rest of the world, including to Malfoy's parents.

The choice seemed easy. Tell Dumbledore, he thought more than once as his quill was poised over a piece of parchment, just tell him. Tell Hermione, tell Ron.

I'll just find out Malfoy's plans first, he told himself again, before laying down his quill.

There was one person though, that he never dared think about, and deep down Harry knew it was the main reason why he couldn't commit to telling people.

Not once did he tell himself tell Sirius.

Sirius loved his godson, and Harry was a Malfoy. He was, on his mother's side, a Black. Sirius hated the Blacks, he hated the Malfoys, and he hated Dark Magic, and Harry had been masquerading as his beloved godson, and he, an impostor, was linked with all three of Sirius's prejudices.

Sirius had had a brother, once. They'd been enemies, pretty much, and all because Regulus didn't rebel against his family and the dark arts like Sirius did. Harry didn't know a lot about him, he'd never asked, never tried to dig deeper, because he barely knew Sirius, and the clipped tone in which he talked about Regulus was enough to put him off.

If Sirius hated his brother for not rebelling, how would he feel about Harry? Harry had meant to be put in Slytherin, and although he didn't want to get involved in the dark arts, he couldn't quite tell himself convincingly that he wanted nothing to do with his real parents.

He knew they were evil. But…he'd never had a mother and father before - at least not ones that he could remember. He'd never even met Narcissa Malfoy. His mother. Surely it wasn't wrong to …

He didn't know what he wanted. If he was faced with Lucius and Narcissa right this moment, he would walk away, but all in all he couldn't just ignore his only family in the world. But Sirius might want him to.

If he could get people to keep it from Sirius…but even then it wasn't that easy though. It was an immensely personal pain that he'd suffered, finding out the truth, and telling anyone else about it seemed…wrong. He knew it was the best path, but he just couldn't tell them. Not yet.

He wished Malfoy would hurry up and come and find him so this could all be resolved. Harry had no idea how to find Draco, so Draco had to come to him. He glanced at the letters and the package addressed to Malfoy sitting innocently in the corner and a flash of anger shocked through him. After all this, Malfoy had only bothered to grudgingly scrawl Harry's new name on a badly wrapped parcel and hand it to his owl. Malfoy clearly knew what was going on, but he hadn't bothered to get in contact, and he hadn't even bothered with his usual pristine handwriting. He hadn't moved himself to speak to Harry in any way, even though Harry had no way of knowing how to get to the Malfoy family house.

He supposed he could owl him, but why should he? Malfoy was the one getting the better deal of out this - Harry had lost the only family he had ever known, and his very identity, and while Draco had lost the same, he'd gained the fame that he had always been so jealous of - he had a purpose in the world!

Now Harry was not only without purpose in life, but his parents were evil, and he wasn't going to bother to post Malfoy's mail back to him.

It wasn't until later that night that he remembered the content's of Ron's letter and wrote back to his friends telling them that the Dursleys didn't want him to go away during the summer, and he'd see them on the train.

The day Harry looked in the mirror and saw no trace of his former self in it was the last straw. His hair was soft, fine and brilliant blond, even though it was messily cut into Harry's usual 'take the hedge trimmer to it' style. His eyes were silvery-grey, his eyelashes and eyebrows so light they were invisible, and his forehead clear and pale. He hated it. He could see Lucius Malfoy in the way he unconsciously held his shoulders in a regal manner. It seemed harder to slouch with his new bone structure, now that he tried. His shoes, already ill-fitting, were bigger than ever and his feet were disgustingly dainty. He had no scars at all, and Malfoy had no acne or blemishes - there was not one mole on his perfect body. He searched in vain for a fault and finally smugly concluded that Malfoy had knobbly knees and disturbingly thin wrists. Besides, he probably had magically vanished his spots and pimples. There was no way a real person could be so perfect.

The days he might have spent at the Burrow came and went, and Malfoy still hadn't contacted him with mere days to go before the beginning of the term. He supposed all he could do was try to make sure he got to King's Cross without anyone he knew seeing Draco Malfoy's body where Harry Potter should be.

He couldn't wait for Dumbledore to come and collect him.

The next day he donned a hat and one of Dudley's hoodies and crept out of the house, catching a bus to London.