A/N: Hi there, and welcome to one of my stories!

To be honest, I don't know why I wrote this. I needed a break, having a bit of a blockage if you will and it just— kinda hit me. A while ago, someone suggested I should try a self-insert with the Harry Potter fandom and, well, at first I just shrugged at that idea. It wasn't bad or anything, but it was done before and I wasn't sure how I could add something creative and new to it. But then it started to churn in my brain and all those ideas popped up, mostly ridiculous, but somehow still fun, and I thought—

Why the hell not? It would be a nice writing experience. So, somehow, I got it in my head to try and write a lighter story. More humorous if you will. An experiment.

I don't know how humorous it is, but I had fun writing this. I'll have to warn everyone though, this, is just a for fun project. I go with it whenever the mood strikes me, but I can't say this will have a real update schedule.

I'm not even sure if I should expand this? Perhaps, it should stay as a one-shot from the weary mind of someone whose a bit too busy with only serious things? I don't know.

Anyway, Enjoy and as always let me now what you all think!

o.O.o

Prologue

I'd never been an avid believer of the supernatural. I enjoyed the occasional horror story, loved a good fantasy book, and might have fantasised about having magic at least at one point in my life. However, dreaming of being the hero in a fictional world in the safety of your daydreams inside your living room was starkly different than waking up into another's body. A body that not only was completely unfamiliar to me, it was also that of a child. A very pale and very blond-haired child.

And can I just ask, how can someone be so pale and have that kind of blond hair colour without being an albino? Or, without dying it at the very least? Was it magic? Considering where I woke up, I'd say it was a reasonable explanation. Magic—

It was a reasonable explanation. It shouldn't have been. When I woke up in a room that wasn't mine, or even familiar to me, I'd first thought I was in a hospital. When I noticed the wand on my bedside and Madam Pomfrey, I thought I was trapped in a freakishly realistic dream— but— nothing I did, no matter how many times I squeezed my eyes shut and reopened them, changed the surroundings I saw. The body I was trapped in. And as panic started to squeeze my throat, laying on the world's most uncomfortable bed with a scratchy white comforter, draped tightly around me, I realised, finally realised whose body I was in. When I'd turned to the window, left arm heavily bandaged, I caught sight of a wavering reflection in the black glass.

Pale and ghostlike his face had seemed, dimly illumined by the murky glow from the flaming torches at the wall, I hadn't recognised him immediately. A narrow face framed with white-blond hair, gazed back and it took several minutes before I realised it was the face from which I was looking out. An ethereal image I couldn't recognise, didn't want to recognise, but I did. At some point. I'd woken up as thirteen-year-old Draco Malfoy.

A fictional character—

And finally, I freaked out — reasonably so, I'd think — I might have screamed and tried throwing a vase at a very upset-looking Madam Pomfrey. I'd had to come to terms with being stuck in a fucking book series. And damn— did I come to terms with it. I went apeshit hysterical and it was only after Pomfrey magically struck me to my bed, force-feeding me a Calming Draught—

A CALMING DRAUGHT—

Which people apparently used in this universe as a child problem solving— a ROOFIE!

Like, it basically meant a school nurse had gone and drugged a child. And it worked, I supposed. I calmed down.

It was probably her misguided belief I was just in that much pain, or that this behaviour was somehow normal to Draco, that Pomfrey hadn't thought to question me thoroughly. She kept me heavily sedated for a few days, which forced me somewhat to come to terms with being stuck as a fictional character but didn't behold the sight of how fucked I actually was.

Because let's face it, I was fucked. Thoroughly fucked. Not only was I not the hero, which admittedly would not have fitted me in the real world either, but I was also thrown into the skin of someone who basically was the villain. Or a spoiled little racist at the very least and someone who had magic to top that off too. And although I might have been able to get away with pretending to be a thirteen-year-old, I couldn't get away pretending to know what I was doing when it came to magic. I knew spells — some things you just never really forgot — but this Draco Malfoy was supposed to have two years of magical schooling under his belt, and he was expected to know the basics at least. I could not even levitate a piece of paper. I tried.

It was somewhat disappointing. You'd think being a fan of the book series and knowing enough spells by name, you'd be able to do some — or even just one — of them, but well, it wasn't meat to be. And perhaps that wasn't even my fault inherently. Perhaps I could have been able to produce a spark with another wand. After all, this wand had not chosen me. It had closed Draco and I remembered rather vividly that the wand was supposed to choose the wizard. It might not be impressed with a body snatcher wielding it now.

Draco's parents certainly weren't impressed.

I had to come up with a reason why I, when I was let go from the Infirmary, couldn't do magic. Because— of course, I couldn't do magic, not even after a complete afternoon trying again. The wand was just a slap of wood in my hands, the words tasteless when they passed over the haughty curve of my lips and— nothing. The condescending expression I threw at my reflection didn't help either, so when Madam Pomfrey had come, carrying a basin with a sponge and soapy water, I turned towards her, speaking in hushed, upset tones, I thought a child would use. I'd gone for the most teary-eyed expression I could think of, and told her it hurt so bad, I just couldn't focus. How it tingled and pulsed and— truth to be told, it did hurt a bit. There was a strange perhaps slightly painful tingle fluttering down the fingers of my left hand (a bit like pins and needles), but it wasn't the worst pain I'd ever felt. And wasn't that a mild surprise? It seemed the little snot hadn't exaggerated the Hippogriff injury entirely.

Either way, when I sniffed pathetically, her expression softened. My heart had almost stirred out of my chest when she told me she would be examining me again. Which she did and although I'd initially thought that would be a huge fucking problem, she actually uncovered something amiss with my left arm. I watched her produce all kinds of colours, her wand twirling over the unblemished pale flesh of my arms and after half an hour, she jutted down paraesthesia on a scroll, and then explained absentmindedly that while the blood vessels had healed quite nicely, leaving only a faint barely noticeable white line on the inner side of my forearm, the Hippogriff's talons had severed the smaller vessels surrounding the ulna nerve, which supposedly delivered oxygen and nutrients to the concerned nerve. Although easily overlooked — was she trying to come up with excuses why she hadn't thought to check for what was apparently common nerve damage — the short-term shortage had interfered with the ability to transmit impulses to the spinal cord and in extent to the brain. Which, I would have quickly summarised as; 'you have nerve damage,' and 'we're not sure if it's permanent or not'. However, Pomfrey was a lot, but short and to the point, she was not, and instead, kept babbling that there was a high chance the tingling would simply be temporary and 'oh, perhaps I'd like another pain-killer potion?' I would not. But I was going to milk this excuse for all it was worth.

And while I was at that, trying to stop any Slytherin classmate from carrying my bag (Crabbe or Goyle?) or batting her eyes at me (Parkinson, without a doubt), I would figure out how I'd gotten stuck inside another's body. There was no logical reason why I'd woken up as someone else. I didn't even understand what had happened— no, I did remember. Or I thought I'd remembered. I'd gone outside, nothing spectacular, nothing odd or strange, I'd just opened the door and climbed down the stone steps when I slipped. I could still intimately remember the little swoop I'd felt in my stomach, my fingers curling tightly around my phone, WhatsApp flickering with a funny GIF I'd wanted to send, and the world tilting, the sky flashing a bright cerulean blue at me— and then—

Nothing.

My mind came up blank, but I concluded I must have died. Or worse—

And I woke up in the Hogwarts' infirmary, two almost three decades into the past in a different universe. Where, instead of a lamp, smoldering wicks had melted wax on the wooden nightstand. Where strange creatures flapped past the high paned windows and where something huge, and languid swum into the dark, dark recesses of the lake in front of the building I'd found myself in. I'd been caught up in a dream that turned out as a nightmarish reality.

And I had no idea how to deal with it. When discharged from the hospital, taking a strict regime of potions that should perhaps regenerate the nerve vessels, but that did little against the tingling, with me, I spent my the days following sticking to Draco Malfoy's school schedule. I pretended I couldn't do magic, drumming my fingers idly against my left arm when someone asked me to do something, and somehow the teachers believed me, or at least were somewhat subservient to my whims — to Draco Malfoy's whims.

Or perhaps, I had unknowingly been much better at holding up this whole pretence than I'd thought. Malfoy was left-handed, a little detail I'd missed but that served me well, even if I was not in fact left-handed. It was even better when I realised the teachers attributed my terrible penmanship to me having to write with my dormant hand.

The only downfall to my little sob story, exaggerating my injuries, and acting like a kicked puppy, came in the form of Lucius Fucking Malfoy (or as I liked to call him Lucious Lucius). I'd gotten somewhat used to the daily life of a school boy, wandering the hallowed walls of magical academia, even if the subjects were sometimes downright ridiculous, and we'd been having a double hour of Potions class when a sharp knock interrupted Snape mid-sentence. I'd been almost looking forward to the tongue lashing whoever it was at the other side of the door would receive from Snape when Malfoy Senior stepped inside.

I believe I had turned a ghastly green-pale when I watched a taller version of myself — of Draco — step into the classroom. He'd looked out of place there, robes expensive and the emeralds inlaid on his snake cane glimmering ominously in the low blue flame light of the soldering torches on the wall. His expression an art form of viciousness and derisiveness, packed up in the tight aristocratic lines of his face and gun-metal eyes surveyed the classroom. I might have dropped the shrivelfig with a gasp when his eyes met mine.

"Lucius?" Snape asked, just as dour and ghastly as the books described.

"Well, hello Severus, my apologies for interrupting your lesson," Malfoy said suavely.

"No matter," Snape answered slowly, his eyes flitting to me before settling on Malfoy Senior again.

"I'm here for my son."

His son— which would be me. I let my imagination take a run with me, the stone floor swallowing and spewing me out at the other side of this earth, but— imagination had no place in the stare Lucius Malfoy was bestowing upon me and I felt my shoulders lock together, fingers curling tightly around the edge of the table. Snape's lips had pressed tightly together and for a hopeful moment, I thought he might deny the request. Perhaps out of pure spite for daring to interrupt him? It wouldn't be unlike him, would it?

He didn't. Waving his hand in a clear dismissive gesture he nodded. "Of course, you can use my office."

"Much appreciated," Lucius retorted, a smile that almost seemed genuine slipping loose beneath the polished refined surface that was Lucius Malfoy's face. He turned to me, expectance radiating from one haughty eyebrow raising. Its twin joined a second later. "Draco?"

"Right, coming," I answered slowly, my feet felt leaden as I got up.

It must have been the wrong thing to say, because when I stepped up next to him, Malfoy's hand clasped firmly on my shoulder. I supposed the lack of pristine etiquette and lessons on how to act during tedious social engagements surrounded with commoners (or perhaps Malfoy would call them Mudbloods and Blood traitors) must have shown through that one sentence and my limbs grew stiff. Sweat prickled the skin of the back of my neck and I took in a deep breath.

Lucius Malfoy observed me with his lips pressed together in a firm line. His hair was long, tied in a ponytail at the back of his neck and he was tall. Where I was still overly slender and cheeks rounded by baby-fat, he was tall and broad-shouldered. I wished his physical strength was the only thing he'd have over me and I noted with some detached morbid curiosity, that although he didn't have the baby-fat I had clinging to his cheeks, but the sharpness I did have in the planes of my face, seemed to have softened in his.

"Come with, Draco."

A shudder ran down my spine. "Right away— Father."

He ushered me away and into a gloomy, dimly lit room with shadowy walls lined with shelves. Large glass jars filled with the slimy things Harry Potter had once described in the fifth book, adorned the shelves and I was pushed rather hard against a dark, rickety desk. My hands held onto it desperately.

"Father, I—"

"What is the point of all of this, boy?" Malfoy snapped. His wand was out, I supposed it was either to ensure we had the privacy, or he was actually going to hex me. The fireplace to the side lit up and I tried to remember what I knew of the Malfoys. I knew quite a bit. If it wasn't from the books it had come from the internet or from interviews with JK Rowling. I knew they had a house as big as a castle. Knew that before the Statue of Secrecy had passed, they had lived among Muggles as royalty (hypocrites, yes) and that their estate in Wiltshire was actually a gift from Muggle King William the first. I knew Lucius Malfoy had been among Voldemort's inner circle of followers and his terrorist organisation. I knew from the movies and the books Malfoy Senior was a bit of an icicle who in the best scenario had no idea how to show affection and instead showered his son in luxury to make up for it, or in the worst scenario was an abusive arsehole who let the outside world think everything was perfect. I didn't know which one was actually true, so—

"Erm," I wetted my lips. "I don't follow— Father?"

One eyebrow twitched and grey eyes flashed. "I had to hear from Dumbledore— DUMBLEDORE that you were injured during your first day here? I had to hear from that old coot that, not only was my son injured, but apparently, the injury isn't healing properly. Do you understand what you put your mother through? Do you, foolish boy?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Don't make it sound like a question." He snapped.

"I'm sorry," I answered, sounding as earnestly as I could manage. "I was distracted."

Lucius looked as if he'd like nothing more than to whack me over the head with his cane and I took a deliberate step back, sidestepping the desk and stopping only a few centimetres from the the wall.

"You were distracted?" He asked slowly his cheeks rapidly gaining colour. "What do you mean, you were distracted? What were you distracting with, if not your schooling?"

"Erm—" I tried in a panicky tone. This was going oh so well. "My arm?"

Your arm? Seriously? Nice one, Dickhead.

Malfoy turned even redder and, honestly, for a man who was an advisor to the Minister for Magic and who was supposed to restrain his emotions and gestures, I could read him like an open book. I had to think of something to say, or else I would find myself hexed and my mouth turned dry. Thinking of a way to gain a semblance of control, I clasped my hands behind my back and tried for an apologetic look.

"I— I truly am sorry to worry you and mother."

Malfoy didn't look appeased yet.

"I was— my arm is still not fully recovered and Madam Pomfrey has me on pain medication."

"Pain medication?" Malfoy echoed and tilted his head. "What do you mean Pain medication?"

"Oh, I mean I'm getting potions to help with it."

"I am perfectly aware of what pain medication entails, Draco."

At least, he wasn't aware I wasn't actually Draco but before I could celebrate that little win the door opened and a very flushed very regal blonde woman stepped inside. I knew who she was even though she looked nothing like the woman who played her in the movies. Narcissa Malfoy was tall and slender with long blonde hair piled up in a difficult ado on top of her head. I hadn't expected seeing her here (any more than I had expected Lucius Fucking Malfoy to show up) and stared helplessly at her.

She looked— ruffled. I would later learn, she'd made a pitstop at Dumbledore's office first. I guess no one envied Albus Dumbledore at that moment and as I looked at her, I certainly had no idea how to handle her.

"Uh— hello?"

"That is no way to greet your Mother!" Lucius snapped, but his wife was already shushing him.

"My poor baby!" She whispered and hurried across the room, marine blue robe swirling delicately around her like the wings of a butterfly. I ducked my head when she scrutinised me and a second later I found myself in her arms. I didn't think it could get any more awkward, had I tried.

"I was so worried!" She gasped out, stroking my hair and— I hadn't had a mother figure hugging me like I would turn into dust any second in— well, ever, so I might not have handled it as well as I could.

"I'm fine— Just my arm is not."

Pale, cool fingers splayed out against my cheeks and Narcissa Malfoy softly cupped my face. I wasn't even as tall as her, my head only reaching her chin and I looked up at her through the fringe of blond lashes. "Why didn't you write us about that terrible beast?"

"It— I thought it would sort itself out on itself."

"My brave, brave boy." She whispered and turned to her husband, moving around the room with a feline poise I'd never seen on someone before. I wondered absentmindedly if the dancing quality to one's walk was what social etiquette for Witches demanded. Even in the privacy of Severus Snape's office, Narcissa Malfoy carried the outward image of perfection, and I wondered worriedly how much this slender woman would have in common with her insane older sister. After all, blood ran thicker then water. And I watched with a real layer of discomfort how the two blond adults had a conversation without words. I doubted it would bode any better for the Hippogriff than it had in the original timeline.

"Mother?"

She turned towards me, face slack, yet beautiful and worried. "Don't worry, Sweetheart. Consider the beast dead!"

I was so fucked.

I wasn't even sure how I'd gotten rid of Draco's parents. I assumed with empty platitudes and promises but I was feeling lightheaded once I saw them leave the castle. They hadn't noticed I was acting differently. Or they'd considered it was due to the accident and I couldn't keep relying on that. So instead, I spent every afternoon following that day, up in the library, curled up in a chair by the glowing fire with one book or another in my lap. The entire weekend was spent in that same library, seeking refuge between the large towering bookcases, I worked on homework I barely understood, or at least, on magic I couldn't do. I tore through Draco's notes, payed attention in every class and tried to smile politely whenever someone talked to me, insisting on being polite and not irritating anyone. I knew Draco Malfoy was barely ever polite, but— Fuck, I couldn't even lift a feather with magic so I didn't antagonise a single student, didn't needle the Gryffindors — who obviously expected me to whenever we had classes together or passed each other in the hallways — and didn't throw slurs in the faces of any teacher. Although, I didn't think Draco was that impolite to teachers, of course, but one couldn't be too sure.

I needed as much goodwill from the teachers as I could get, especially when I was only barely keeping my head above the water during classes. Although I managed well enough during Potions — I could follow instructions, thank you very much — and handled subjects like Arithmancy and Ancient Runes well enough, but the magical classes? Well, let's say that I couldn't keep on relying on my pitiful arm forever.

People were definitely bound to start noticing I didn't act like Malfoy. I'd never really liked Draco Malfoy. I'd tolerated him in the books and sometimes enjoyed his witty comebacks. I had sympathised with him when he got into deep water in the sixth book and never really believed you could blame a child for his upbringing, or in a different sense from being cohered into a direction he might not have chosen when he wasn't under duress.

However, Draco Malfoy was a bully and a braggart. And above that all, apparently he'd been smart enough. He earned high marks — which was probably expected from him — and it would only be so long before people were going to ask questions. I could learn the magical theory, I could answer academical questions right, but unless I would start doing the actual magic, people would become suspicious.

That was if they wouldn't become suspicious of my behaviour instead. Bullying an orphan who came from an abusive household, a ginger who had inferiority issues and a girl who I could think little wrong with, unless you considered her mane of hair that was always in the way and in your line of vision, or perhaps the big front teeth? They just didn't hold much interest for me.

Although, if I was honest, with the attitude Hermione Granger presented, I could imagine how one might have rubbed her unfortunate teeth under her nose. Granger was a true know-it-all who liked to sprout out answers before anyone even had the chance to lift their hand. Even if you wanted to be called upon, and rose your hand, Granger would shout out the answer and when we shared classes, she'd turn towards me with an expression that so obviously said; 'in your face', I could only stare at her with a frown. She seemed to think of me as a rival. I'd almost laughed at that the first time I noticed her holier-than-thou expression, because, it was a thing I'd shared with my sister. Sibling rivalry, fuck, and I doubted Granger was even aware of it. She wasn't the only one though who acted like me being here meant something more than it should.

The weirdest behaviour came from the two boys Draco had been friends with. Crabbe and Goyle didn't just acknowledge my existence. They followed me everywhere. And I bloody well mean EV-ERY-WHERE. I couldn't even venture out to the lavatory alone. They were like a couple of dogs, like my dog, who also followed me anywhere and showered me in affectional little nips and licks. At least, Crabbe and Goyle didn't lick me — although had I asked, I'm sure they would have obliged — and weren't much for conversationalists. If anything they shoved their homework to me to proofread and hung to my every word like a Catholic would hang onto the words of the pope.

And as time progressed, tiring hours, turning into tiring days and then into weeks, I still did not know whom was Crabbe and whom was Goyle. However, I feared that if they kept following me around the way they did, I would be nearly homicidal by the end of the semester. That is, if I wasn't killed before by a moving staircase, or perhaps flattened by the whomping willow.

Was it wrong of me that I almost hoped for that?

To be continued...

A/N: Writing an older OC being reborn. I think the years of experience and the vast knowledge the OC has about the Harry Potter world would give a rather unique perspective. Or I hope it will. Of course, there will be a lot of things going wrong. The overall tone of this fic will be sarcastic humor in the face of most situations, but there is a bit of angst upon arrival. And a lot of trouble with the actual magic part.

Anyway, this is mostly a writing experience for me. Therefore, constructive feedback is appreciated. I want to improve my writing, and of course, I love to know what you all think!

On a different note, the update schedule