Identity Crisis

by Plainyjaney

Summary:

Draco Malfoy and Ron Weasley are two completely different men. Or – they used to be. After an ill-fated potions incident, Draco and Ron switch bodies. If that didn’t make their lives complicated enough, the Vampyre serial killer, Hermione Granger’s incessant questions, and Narcissa Malfoy’s social calendar (in no particular order) threaten to bring their worlds crashing down.

Sometimes the grass is greener on the other side.

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Ron had never been more comfortable in his life. If he could ignore the growing pang of hunger – which, let’s face it, he couldn’t – he would stay in this bed forever.

He sat up with a start, only just realizing the space next to him was cold. No warm and slightly ruffled sheets that he was used to waking up to. He wanted to feel relieved by this, he had been wanting to sleep alone for months now. But he couldn’t shake the wrongness of the bed. In fact, the sheets were entirely different. Velvet or silk or something equally soft. He couldn’t say for certain.

Ron ran his hand across the material, stunned to see a too pale hand, long elegant fingers, and… was he wearing Slytherin pyjamas?

With a strangled yelp, he lurched from the bed, which he knew now definitely wasn’t his, and stumbled about the room.

“Bloody hell,” he murmured. Even his voice wasn’t the same. Ron breathed through his growing anxiety. It was unclear if it was his decade as an auror or his years of friendship with Harry Potter – but a too fast heart rate never made a situation better. Ron made his way across the immaculate room, tripping on the corner of the king sized bed.

There were two armchairs set up by a fireplace and a bookshelf that stretched across an entire wall. Rows of books were lined neatly (and completely dust free) on the shelves. A far cry from the stacks Hermione kept in their flat.

Ron opened the door next to the shelf leading into what seemed to be the suspect’s closet. Rows of pressed robes hung organized by color.

“Prick,” he murmured in the strange new voice.

At least Ron could be sure he was in a wizard’s apartment. One time Johnson had woken up two towns over in a muggle’s townhouse after a particularly rowdy evening at the pub.

But Ron hadn’t been to the pub last night. Hadn’t done anything but clean himself up and trudge to bed cursing the Malfoy name. A regular Friday evening by his typical standards.

He swallowed, his nervousness renewed despite the deep breaths. Ron left the closet and entered through the second door in the room. Instead of leading to the rest of the home, he found himself in the bathroom. His eyes widened – the marble tile, the thick bath mat, the shower with at least five spray nozzles. And the mirror, which held a very impressed looking Draco Malfoy.

As quickly as Ron saw him, Draco’s face became a mixture of disbelief and utter terror. Ron looked down at his stupid pyjamas, his manicured nails. He leaned as close to the mirror as he could, his nose brushing up against Malfoy’s. He combed his fingers through the platinum hair. Squinting his eyes, sticking out his tongue, patting his cheeks.

Ron shouted and hurled himself away from the mirror, “What the fuck?”

He was in Draco Malfoy’s body. That much was clear. What wasn’t clear was how and why and what the fuck?

He heard the telltale burst of a floo from outside the bedroom.

“Draco?” A woman’s voice called through the flat.

The panic finally set in. No auror training could prepare him for this.

“Draco, darling?”

Bloody hell. Did Malfoy have a girlfriend? He’d never said. In fact, Ron knew literally nothing about the prick’s life. Except that, apparently, he kept a very clutter free home. With plush towels and soft linens. Helpful information if Ron ran a laundry service in need of elite clientele.

“Draco, I thought you were coming to Blaise’s for breakfast,” Pansy Parkinson stared at him from the bathroom entryway. Ron straightened under her intense scrutiny. “You’re not even dressed. Did you just wake up?”

Pansy’s hair was chopped short in an even line at her chin. There was not a single strand out of place. Her eyes were lined black and her lips were deep red. It was all a dramatic change from the ugly, mean-spirited witch he’d grown up with.

“Have you swallowed your fucking tongue? It’s nearly eleven and we had plans today,” she put her hands on her hips.

Maybe a bit mean spirited still.

Ron cleared his throat, “Apologies…er, Pansy.” He was startled by the grumbly baritone of his own voice.

What would Malfoy do? What was Malfoy doing, had just occurred to him and was probably the actual question he should be asking. It stood to reason that if Ron was in Malfoy’s body - someone was in Ron’s body. Presumably, and maybe hopefully, it was Malfoy.

Pansy stared at him expectantly.

“Unfortunately, I am, er, predisposed. I’ve got to get off to The Shoppe.” Did he sound like Malfoy? Having only spent an afternoon with the man in the last ten years, Ron had little to go by. Grunt-like noises seemed to be his best bet for communication style.

Pansy furrowed her brow and looked about a second away from stomping her foot. “But it’s a Saturday. Surely, you can take a day’s break.” She stepped closer to him, laying her palm on his chest. Pansy looked up at him with sultry eyes. Eyes that said —

Ron laughed nervously then coughed to cover it up. “I’m sorry da-darling,” he stuttered. “But the, well, you know, lacewing flies, er… won’t stir themselves.”

He slipped from her grasp hurrying out of the bathroom, through the bedroom and into the flat beyond.

“Draco? You aren’t even –”

Whatever Pansy ‘sex eyes’ Parkinson had to say was cut off by the floo as Ron hurtled off to the shop.

—-

Yesterday, nearly 3pm, just outside Darlington, England

The crime scene was like any other: morose, bloody, and a little smelly. Ron was used to it by now – the slurry of uniformed professionals scurrying around a dead body. Chairs scraped across the floor all by themselves, even though there were at least twenty people who could’ve used their own two hands. Tape unfurled itself around the pale man slumped across a small bistro table. A blueberry muffin, untouched, on a frilly little plate next to him.

The body was found at a coffee house outside Darlington. By ‘found,’ Ron presumed they meant the overtired barista didn’t notice the unmoving man in the early morning rush of nine-to-fivers until well past any true witnesses could provide information. Convenient for the murderer, inconvenient for Ron, who was already stretching his wrist to prepare for the inordinate amount of murder-paperwork he’d have to do this evening. An hour ago, Harry had locked down the cafe to any dangerous outside influence (in this case, hungry, uncaffeinated muggles) and called Ron in for the investigation.

Now, Ron moved closer to the dead man for a better view of the unfortunate source of his future hand cramp. His stomach growled loudly at the sight of the uneaten muffin next to the body. If he ignored the corpse, the scene was practically mouthwatering.

“I didn’t get a chance to eat breakfast, okay?” He responded to Harry’s overt side-eye.

“This is a crime scene,” Harry said, levitating the man’s chest from the table. Ron rolled his eyes. Not only had he partaken in hundreds of cases in his tenure with the ministry, but the glassy-eyed, cold body made it abundantly clear this was a crime scene. “And it’s 3pm – we had lunch together barely two hours ago.”

“Right…but I didn’t have breakfast,” Ron shook his head at Harry’s abysmal appetite. Three meals a day was a rule to live by and Ron did so fastidiously.

Neville cleared his throat, “Geoffrey Manlon, aged 45. He was a local butcher in Darlington. No close relatives.”

Ron stepped closer to inspect two holes leaking blood in the man’s neck, dodging a harried Angelina Johnson as she worked to capture images of the scene. “Muggle, I presume?”

Neville cleared his throat again, “Y…Yes. Sorry. I forgot to say that.”

“Neville, grab the aurors some tea, would you?” Harry said from his side of the corpse.

“Course, yeah, on it.” Neville stumbled towards the white-faced barista behind the counter.

“Remind me why he’s here, again,” Ron grumbled under his breath.

Harry flicked his overgrown hair from his eyes, “Neville is a good auror – he’s an asset to this team in herbology knowledge alone.”

The crash and splatter of take-away cups drew their attention from the cold body in front of them.

Ron couldn’t help his snort, “You were saying?”

Harry ignored him, focusing instead on the blood slowly leaking from Geoffrey Manlon’s neck. “This follows the pattern,” he said with a sigh.

“Male, forties, no connection to the wizarding world,” Ron said, rattling off the details of the two other murders they’d investigated in the last six months. “Dumped in a public place with a confunded eye witness. Blood drained from his neck with no other signs of injury or struggle.”

Ron pictured the other victims – a balding man on his knees in the pews of the Sheffield Cathedral and a skinny man on a park bench somewhere in Gloucester. Hardly an ounce of blood left in their bodies. Ron considered himself a generally happy gent, always ready to find the laughter in the room, but even he could admit this was becoming more sinister by the minute.

“Well, Ron, looks like we have a serial killer on our hands,” Harry sniffed as he straightened. “Don’t look so excited.”

Ron schooled his face as best he could, “I am a regular amount of interested in this case.”

“Convincing,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “Some of us do have lives outside of work.”

Ron opened his mouth to object, but Harry beat him to it, “Lives that we are interested in. Girlfriends that we love and don’t lead on to avoid conflict.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ron huffed, wishing Harry knew him a little less.

“I’m telling you to stop hiding behind serial killers and break up with your girlfriend.”

“Is it considered a serial killer if it’s a Vampyre?”

Ron and Harry stared at the young trainee whose robes looked double his size.

He cleared his throat, “I mean… Vampyres are always — you know — killing people…”

Ron straightened and crossed his arms, leaning closer to Harry, “What do you think, should we sic Mione on him?”

“Eh, she’s probably busy at the Hospital. Wouldn’t want to waste her time with a creature’s rights speech.”

Ron nodded, turning his attention to the bakery at large. He was sure there was some evidence that could lead them back to the Vampyre culprit. He scanned the room and caught snippets of Harry’s ethics lecture to the poor trainee.

“Vampyres, while predisposed to feed on and kill humans, are not inherently evil. Especially in recent years, Vampyres have —”

Ron tuned out his speech, looking closer at the coffee mug, out in the open now that the man’s body had been lifted off it. “Harry, do you see what I see?”

Harry looked at Ron over his shoulder before stepping closer to see what Ron was pointing at. They locked eyes, Ron’s eyebrows furrowing.

“Well, that settles it,” Harry said, clapping Ron on the back once in finality. “I’ll stay here while you pay our friend a visit.”

Ron groaned, “Why me? You’re the one who made amends. I still hate the prick.”

“I have to stay here and obliviate all these muggles, clean up a crime scene, and do approximately two tonnes of paperwork. Trust me, you’ve got the easy option.”

Ron didn’t think so. In fact it was very clear to him that Draco Bloody Malfoy was never the easy option.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Draco Malfoy disliked many things in life.

Going to see his overly chatty tailor (lack of personal space, small talk). Romance novels, especially those set in Olde England (trite, historically inaccurate). Scheduled and mandatory weekly tea times with his socialite mother (again, lack of personal space, small talk).

The list could continue on for quite a while. Sometimes, his friends would start rattling off scenarios for him to add.

Theo mentioned something to do with Miss Penelope’s Cupcake Emporium and a fifteen minute queue. A crying child included, but not wholly necessary, to level up Draco’s pain. Pansy insisted the discount section at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes was worse.

Crabbe simply said, “Leaving the flat.”

Fair enough.

There were, however, few things Draco found more abhorrent than his current situation: Watching Ronald Weasley, the dopiest of the so-called Golden Trio, stride into Draco’s shop as if he owned the place.

“I like what you’ve done with the space,” Weasley said. Even now, years away from their time at Hogwarts, Draco found that voice foul and grating. “Vials lining the wall, dried herbs hanging from the beams, and a sign out front that says only ‘The Potions Shoppe.’ I wonder what it is you do here.”

It was clearly Weasley’s idea of a joke. Draco was unamused, looking Weasley up and down with what he knew was unhidden disdain.

“Have something to say, Malfoy? Or would you prefer to just stand there sneering at a customer?”

“What do you want?” Draco bit out through gritted teeth. It was clear Weasley wasn’t here to buy anything - the wrinkled auror’s robes indicated this was a purely professional visit. Perhaps the ministry had finally decided to give Draco the Azkaban sentence they’d always been threatening him with.

Weasley rolled his eyes when Draco didn’t play along. “I come at the behest of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Draco did another slow perusal of the wizard’s robes. Weasley had a way of making everything he wore look secondhand.

He noted Draco’s gaze and continued with a sigh, “We need a favor.”

Draco hid his surprise with a slow blink. The DMLE needing a favor from the disgraced Malfoy heir was hardly a good omen. He ran his tongue over his teeth considering the rumpled man in front of him.

The front door locked and the sign flipped to ‘closed.’ He left the quiet orchestral record playing in its magical loop, his only hope of keeping himself grounded. Draco cocked his head towards the back room, beckoning Weasley to follow him, “No promises.”

Draco’s potions lab, while small, was certainly mighty. Not that Weasley would be impressed by such a thing. A dozen cauldrons lined the back wall. These were his long simmering brews, anything that needed over a month of maintenance. Another half dozen sat on the tall counters in the middle of the room. These held his short term potions and, more importantly, his experiments. One of which was emitting a shudder inducing green smoke that he’d have to check on once Weasley left. Besides the active brewing, Draco had a formidable potions library. He’d spent a whole day organizing the shelves. Granted, it had been one of the days the Ministry had his wand confiscated for testing. But he had liked the manual separating of his books. He knew exactly which ones he had and where they were at any given time. He’d rather stick his head in the green smoke than tell the ministry that, of course.

Once they were settled at the small side table, a pot of tea pouring itself into their cups, Draco motioned for Weasley to start the grovelling.

“There’ve been three murders in the last few months. Muggles left in public places, their bodies entirely drained of blood. A Vampyre bite on their neck and two X’s engraved somewhere nearby.” Weasley summoned a case packet from thin air, the pages fanning out in front of Draco’s steaming cup of tea.

Draco swallowed. The only sign of nervousness he’d allow. For this was another thing Draco disliked: any discussion of Werewolves and Vampyres (frightening, sadistic). Spend a year with Fenrir Greyback as a roommate and one might understand Draco’s offense. The papers in front of Draco shifted so that an image of two X’s chipped into a coffee mug lay front and center. Draco tried to ignore the pale white hand of a corpse in the background.

“Can you confirm my hunch?” Weasley asked.

“Are you being cryptic or daft?” Draco raised his palms in surrender when Weasley’s knuckles whitened, “Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

Ron took a deep breath as if centering himself. “It’s The Kiss, isn’t it?”

Two X’s – the calling card of the infamous Vampyre clan, The Kiss – a signature of kisses on or near their victims. Only twenty Vampyres were initiated in the clan at any one time. They were brutal. Bloody. Extremely old-fashioned (and also just plain old). They hadn’t been truly active for years. Sure, they’d feed and move on, but a series of public deaths was out of character.

“The Malfoy family has severed all ties with the Vampyre clans,” Draco said in answer to a different question and sipped his tea with steady hands.

“Unsever them.”

Weasley – ever the master of rhetorical skill.

“The ministry insisted the Malfoy’s cease all contact with the clans. Something about lack of trust and nefarious dealings, if I recall correctly.”

The purse of Ron’s lips and the growing pink on his cheeks said Draco did recall correctly.

“Listen, Malfoy, if it were any other clan, we’d find a way. But you know as well as I that this group is … particular.”

Particular in that they refused to work with the ministry even with the new protections for Vampyres. Particular in that they only spoke to wizards in the Sacred Twenty-Eight. In fact, the only wizard that had come and gone from the clan alive in the last fifty years was Lucius Malfoy. The ministry had sent Draco’s father in to help their cause against the Dark Lord. Lucius had used it to his advantage, turning the clan against the ministry and the Order. A classic Lucius move, if Ill-advised (as most of his father’s moves were).

Draco stood abruptly, teapot and cups following him over to the sink. The gentle lilt of the violins on the record kept him from smashing the porcelain. With his back to Weasley and his hands fisted at his sides, Draco spoke, “I am not my father. I do not deal in politics. I do not negotiate with dark creatures. I make potions and live a quiet life away from all that nonsense.”

After a beat of silence he turned around. Draco was expecting a stunned, red-faced wizard. The gaping mouth that Weasley had when someone denied him.

Instead, Weasley seemed perfectly at ease and completely unsurprised, “Make me a potion then.”

Draco slid his lips into a sneer. How easy it was to return to the old ways. It was like they were at Hogwarts all over again. “Let me guess: Pulchra Oil to get rid of those ugly freckles? Or maybe Incrementus Draught for those lackluster nights in the bedroom?”

Weasley snickered before covering it with a cough. If Draco didn’t know better, he’d think Weasley was amused by his immature jabs.

“What if Draco Malfoy visited The Kiss, but you stayed in The Potion Shoppe safe and sound?”

Draco rolled his eyes, leaning against the sink. His stomach sank with the words he already knew were coming. How else could someone be in two places at once? “There you go being cryptic or daft again, Weasley.”

Ron drummed his fingers against the grain of the table, “Polyjuice potion.” He went on, not waiting for Draco’s response, “I’m sure you have some brewing up in here already,” he gestured to the steaming cauldrons. “I’d be in and out of the lair in under an hour. A few questions using your skin and then all will go back to as it was.”

Draco pondered how much damage Weasley could do in his body and then asked the obvious question, “What’s in this for me?”

An envelope, again summoned from thin air, fluttered down to the table.

“A clean record. Minister approved. No history of wrongdoing. No more wand weighing, yearly Ministry check-ins, or surveillance on your Gringotts account,” Ron drummed his fingers again. “A quiet life away from all this nonsense,” He quoted.

Draco’s heart raced at the prospect but let his agreement show with only a question: “When do you need it by?”

Ron smiled one of those wide, unguarded Gryffindor smiles, “Is now good?”

It was only minutes before Draco was chopping with fervor, his ever-brewing Polyjuice potion cauldron hovering over a work bench and steaming in the center of the room. He’d tried to kick Ron out while he worked, but the weasel insisted he stay. He also insisted on talking loudly over Draco’s music.

“Bit unethical isn’t it,” Weasley gestured at the centaur hoof, “How do you suppose they got that?”

“You spend too much time with Granger,” Draco responded, not looking up from his task. It was best done without magic – another lesson learned while in wandless, ministry mandated purgatory.

“Maybe,” Weasley chuckled. Draco narrowed his eyes, pushing back the images of Weasley and Granger together. Laughing, talking about creature rights, canoodling. Or worse picking out yarn for their homemade wool sweaters. “Although, she would probably already know how they got these ingredients and would have a multi-page list arguing each method.”

Draco ignored him, perhaps if he didn’t answer, Ron would leave him alone…

“I was always shite at potions,” Ron chuckled. “Probably why the ministry called you in. Well, that, and no one else was interested in potentially dismembering an auror.”

Draco paused his furious chopping, “I told you –”

“I know, I know. There’s a very small chance of death and/or dismemberment from Polyjuice potion. But when I regale my girlfriend of my day’s work, I like to keep things interesting,” Ron winked. “Less paperwork, more risk of bodily harm. You know how it is.”

Draco stared at Ron with a blank look.

“Or maybe you don’t know how it is…” Ron trailed off but had his eyebrows raised. Draco didn’t feel like explaining that Pansy could care less if Draco showed up to her flat missing an arm. She wasn’t his girlfriend – not in the way Weasley and Granger were together. Unless they too sometimes slept with each other out of boredom and angst from societal pressures.

Draco ignored Ron’s questioning look, “While Polyjuice potion certainly carries its risks, as does any complicated potion, I can assure you there will be no dismemberment to share with your girlfriend.”

He moved on to slicing the goose beans. The juices were meant to influence a potion’s power. It was an exact process – one which Draco found some solace in (even with ghosts of his past torturing him with personal questions).

Ron cleared his throat and Draco winced at the offensive noise. “Look, I just think if we are going to be working together, and I'm meant to be you, we ought to get to know each other a bit, yeah?”

“The Vampyres don't know me. You could rock up in leather pants and a red beret and they'd hardly bat an eye.”

Ron gave an ugly snort, “There isn't a soul in the world who wouldn't bat an eye at that little picture you've painted.”

Draco could concede that point. But he wouldn’t. He threw the beans into the cauldron instead.

Ron leaned against the work bench, toppling a few of the vials in his wake. “But that was years ago. And we have some time on our hands here. What are we going to do – sit in silence?”

Draco bowed his head in deeper concentration, that was exactly what he wanted to do. The ministry might force him to work with Weasley just this once, but they couldn’t force him to talk.

“Silence it is then,” Ron mumbled, righting the vials. Draco could swear he saw him roll his eyes.

Ron drummed his fingers against the work bench, “Do you still fly?”

Salazar, this idiot was like a bug that needed to be swatted. And then ground up with a mortar and pestle. And then dumped into a flaming hot cauldron. “No, I don’t have access to a pitch.”

“Huh, I thought the manor had a professional size quidditch pitch. You bragged about it enough in school.”

Draco rummaged through the ingredients, dumping and stirring them into the cauldron with his teeth gritted. “I don’t live at the manor.”

“Oh.” He couldn’t see Ron’s face, but he was sure it was gobsmacked and dumb looking. Nothing out of the usual. “Where do you live then?”

Draco stirred counterclockwise four times before switching direction, “In a flat.”

“Oh.” That dumb look again, hardly a freckle had changed since they were fourteen.

“Why? Do you still live with your mother?” Draco said, checking his wrist watch for a thirty second countdown.

“No, no I live in a house with Padma and Hermione,” Ron chuckled, “Love the privacy. But sometimes it gets a little quiet. Grow up with so many siblings and you get used to hearing people clamoring about all night.”

Draco couldn’t relate. The manor was always near silent. Even the portraits only whispered to each other, the ghosts floating silently through the halls. His flat was similarly quiet – although, it was always a bit louder when his friends intruded through his floo and made themselves at home.

“Sounds akin to living in a zoo,” Draco said, not bothering to hide the bite to his words. He focused again on his stirring.

His blonde hair fell into his eyes, plastering a bit to his sweaty forehead. This was the part of potions work that always gave him a bit of a rush. The ingredients coming together, the liquid bubbling and aroma wafting. It was the moment of truth. Or the moment when 21 days of brewing lacewing flies was wasted.

He ran down the ingredient list checking each box mentally. Draco cursed under his breath, he’d nearly forgotten to prepare the fluxweed.

“Stir this clockwise for ten more seconds, then stir counterclockwise for four full rotations, then add two goose bean slices,” Draco passed the wooden spoon off to Ron and crossed the room to the cabinets.

“Godric, you sound just like her,” Ron said, glancing at his own watch. “She also wouldn’t let me use my wand for brewing. Said there was a special touch to using your own two hands.”

“Who?” Draco asked over his shoulder, mumbling the ingredients under his breath until he found the fluxweed.

“Mione,” Ron said. “Did I tell you we brewed polyjuice potion our 2nd year? I swear you sound exactly the same.”

Draco shook off his offense at being compared to a twelve year old. “Stir counterclockwise now, please. No, you didn’t mention that you all were brewing illegal potions as students. It doesn’t surprise me though, you lot always were a nuisance.”

The fluxweed just had to be crushed and then it would be ready for the cauldron. It was the final ingredient before the subject’s hairs were added. His own hair, in this case. Draco didn’t let himself think about the next step of this – the one where he would let Ronald Fucking Weasley become him for a few hours. Ridiculous.

“Well, in that instance, we were trying to prove that you were the heir of Slytherin,” Ron grinned, completing another stir.

Draco’s hand slipped on the bench, “Excuse me?”

Ron scratched his head in faux innocence, “Harry was sure you were opening the chamber of secrets and petrifying the muggleborns. We had to check, so we polyjuiced ourselves to be Crabbe and Goyle and followed you into the common room to question you.”

“What an idiotic plan,” Draco said behind gritted teeth. “The side effects alone, Salazar, you were all dumber than I thought you were.”

Ron finished another rotation, “We got what we needed, though. You weren’t the heir and we could go on our way finding the real culprit.”

Draco shook his head, drawing his attention back to the fluxweed. Great. It was crushed to foamy pieces from his distraction. He went back to the cabinet to grab another jar. Ron continued his rambling.

“We also brewed Polyjuice when we were on the run. We had to sneak into the ministry to find Voldemort’s locket and well, it didn’t last us long enough. You said two beans right? I got splinched. Dragged down the operation with my injuries.

“Two slices,” Draco clarified. There was a lot of Ron’s story that Draco needed to unpack. He focused instead on the fluxweed at hand. Crushed to perfection.

Ron crinkled his nose. “Gah, this smells more disgusting than I remember. I guess I was a bit distracted by Voldemort’s genocidal mania last time I drank it.”

He set the fluxweed at Ron’s side along with a pale hair. “Put these in there after two more stirs.”

If Ron noticed his voice was tighter than usual, he didn’t say. Draco tried to walk with a measured pace to the copper sink. Tried not to chug water directly from the tap. It happened sometimes – the racing heart and spiraling thoughts had been following him since the Dark Lord had taken up residence in Malfoy manor. Even Potter killing the man hadn’t stopped the nightmares.

Draco heard an unexpected splash behind him. Turning around, he saw the plume of dark grey smoke before he noticed Ron’s grimace.

“Was that supposed to happen?” Ron wavered. In the face of a smoking cauldron, the wizard continued his slow clockwise rotations.

Draco groaned, promises of an easily completed project floating away in the smoke. “No. It isn’t supposed to become a gas.” He crossed the room in two quick strides.

“I didn’t do anything you didn’t tell me to do, okay?” Ron’s voice cracked and Draco winced. The brew was bubbling, nearly reaching the brim. It was a sickly beige color. Certainly not something he could reasonably pass off as a success – not with his freedom on the line. “I did the rotations and the clockwise and the counterclockwise and the beans and the fluxweed and the hair.”

Draco ignored his stammering and searched the work bench for something amiss.

“You obviously didn’t use the fluxweed, as it is right here,” Draco said, pointing at the board of perfectly crushed fluxweed.

Ron’s face turned an impossible shade of red, “Don’t be mad.”

“Why would I be mad?” Draco ran a hand through his hair. “Only three weeks of work out the window.”

“I swear, I put the fluxweed in — it looked just like that. Except more… pulpy?”

“Dammit, Weasley. That was the first batch that I fucked up because you distracted me.”

Somehow, Ron’s face got redder and his stirring more aggressive. “So you’re saying this is my fault.”

“You’re right. I’ve been distracting you with stories from my youth and questions about your personal life – no, wait – that was you,” Draco moved to pull the spoon from Ron’s grasp.

Ron tried to elbow him away, continuing his stirs while they both fought over the spoon, “Sorry for acting like a real human being. I’m just trying to make this more bearable, Malfoy.”

Draco’s artful comeback (something along the lines of ‘Yeah? Well, fuck you’) was cut off by an ominous gurgling coming from the cauldron.

“Malfoy?” Ron’s voice was high and squeaky. “Make it stop.”

Draco’s grip on the spoon just below Ron’s clammy hand tightened. Of all the lessons he’d had attended from Year One to his mastery, any discussion of halting a noxious brew flew from his head.

And so, while Draco contemplated his incompetence as a potioneer and a wizard, the potion boiled past the brim and exploded across both their faces.

The chaos subsided as quickly as it came on. Cold, despite the boiling, Draco swiped the potion from his eyes and mouth. He cleared his throat, not making eye contact with the dazed wizard at his side.

“Well, that’s well and truly fucked, isn’t Weasley? It will take at least twenty-four hours for the reserves to be ready for brewing. Stunning.” Draco didn’t wait for a response. In fact, he was sure if he heard another word from the git, he’d blow up another potion in his face. Without a second thought, Draco left through The Shoppe’s private floo (an, in his opinion, ingenious tactic to avoid all interaction with the general public), Weasley’s shouts cut off by the green flames.

Draco closed his eyes and breathed in the silence. It was a blessed change from Weasley’s manic chatter. He readied for bed, an overly hot shower to scrub off the rank potion. He took care to shave his face and style his hair (one strand wasted in that blasted potion!). Draco took pride in his routine. He enjoyed the repetitive days – although, he hoped today wouldn’t be repeated. Weasley, without a doubt, would be waiting for him tomorrow to start over again. Joy.

Pansy often made fun of him, but Draco was always most comfortable in his emerald cotton pyjamas. Who could blame him? They slid perfectly against his silk sheets. He huffed thinking about Weasley and his ridiculous questions and stories. Weasley probably went home to Granger, who fussed over him and made him dinner and maybe even made love to him before bed. Draco fell asleep, the quiet of his flat echoing in his ears.

His sleep was restless. It was one of those nights where he felt awake even as he dreamt. Draco could've sworn another body rustled the sheets next to him. But the dream pulled him further under. Surprisingly, when he woke, he felt well-rested for the first time in years. Maybe the exhaustion from yesterday’s stress had finally kicked that constant fatigue he always felt.

He groaned and stretched, noticing first that his sheets were not the soft silk he was used to. Draco’s eyes cracked open, practically sealed shut from sleep. He blinked around, sitting up quickly at the realization that he was not at home.

He wasn’t at Pansy’s either.

Draco stumbled out of the bed, his legs not working fast enough to catch up to his brain. He wasn’t in his sleep clothes – just boxers and socks. His throat felt weird and scratchy. His hands felt clammy. Had he been drugged? Kidnapped?

A thousand scenarios rushed through his head. He had to get his bearings. Draco scanned the room, his eyes catching on a panicked looking Ron Weasley. His breath quickened. Draco cocked his head. Ron’s head tilted. Draco stumbled towards Ron. Ron stumbled closer.

Draco stared in the mirror and Ron Weasley stared back.

He shook his head to clear himself of this ridiculous reality, only to find he was still here… and dizzy.

He tried to ignore the sounds (a woman’s voice, clattering pans) coming from the other side of the bedroom door, leaning closer to inspect the freckles on his face. He was in Ron Weasley’s body.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

The Polyjuice potion must’ve… Draco ran through the possibilities. None of the ingredients were meant to send one across town into someone else’s body. He hadn’t put Ron’s hair into the brew. They hadn’t ingested the potion – well, perhaps a bit of potion had flown up his nose in the explosion. But, surely that wasn’t enough to send him into an entirely new body.

Was the real Ron stuck in some fifth dimension? Or worse, was he waking up in Draco’s body? A split second of thought about the absolute havoc Ron Weasley could wreak on Draco’s life had Draco scrambling to get dressed.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

Draco pulled open drawers, sifting through women’s unmentionables and pilling jumpers and holey corduroys. Honestly, what did Weasley wear? He finally found a pair of black trousers – only an inch or two too short on his legs. Finding a shirt was even more difficult. No wonder Weasley was always wrinkled and rumpled. Draco rolled his eyes – Weasley’s eyes. Then closed them with a long-suffering sigh.

Refusing to look back in the mirror, Draco grabbed the other man’s wand from the bed table and made his way towards a floo or front door – whichever he found first.

He made it down a set of stairs – moving portraits of Gryffindors in all their splendor following his movements. Draco was dumped into a small kitchen/dining/living combination. The fireplace was just across the way, an easy escape from whatever nonsense he’d succumbed to this morning.

A clank at the kitchen sink drew his attention and Draco clenched his jaw and stared at the back of the woman apparently fixing up breakfast. She was in a long sleep shirt and shorts that barely covered her arse – not that he was looking. Her hair was a practically sentient nest on her head and her feet were bare.

Hermione startled when she turned around, “You gave me a fright, Ronald!”

Draco grunted. The full force of Granger’s attention was not something he was used to.

“Have a seat, the eggs are almost ready.”

He wanted very badly to not have breakfast with a scantily clad Granger. He wanted very badly to make the fast exit he had been planning on. But Ron’s stomach (the traitor) growled loud enough for her to hear. Granger looked at him expectantly, a plate already prepared in her hands.

Draco slid into the wooden seat, its legs tilting unevenly under his weight. The table was set with an entire spread of breakfast foods. His throat was too dry to swallow. What the hell was he supposed to do with Granger? Surely, Ron’s loving girlfriend would expect a kiss. Or a snog. Or more. Draco tried to calm his racing heart. The implications…

“I know it’s later than usual, but I thought we could celebrate.”

He looked up at her, unsure what to say. What did Weasley usually do with his hands? Draco was sure his mouth was hanging open, a surely unattractive look on Ron. Although, a not entirely uncommon one.

“Are you alright, Ron? You look like you might be sick.” Hermione laid a cool hand on his forehead. Draco wanted to curl away from her touch, but it was grounding in a way he hadn’t expected.

Against every instinct, Draco turned his head away from Granger’s hand and cleared his throat, “What are we celebrating?”

She cocked her head, “Ginny’s big win, of course. Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

He was saved from answering by the loud entrance of another woman. Draco recognized her but only barely. They’d definitely gone to school together. She was one of the twins in his year. Parvati or… another name that had slipped his mind.

“Hi, Love,” she cooed, dipping down to his cheek.

Was she talking to him? “Hello?” he stuttered, dumbly. Honestly, it sounded about right for Weasley. Draco looked to Hermione for her reaction to the lack of boundaries shown by this woman. But she was unphased, only pushing a mug of juice into the woman’s awaiting hand.

Mugs. Honestly, didn’t they have glassware?

“When are the others arriving?” Parvati/not Parvati asked.

Hermione set out the other plates of breakfast foods, “They should be here any minute.”

Draco swallowed. More people was not an ideal obstacle for him right about now. He looked about for an excuse to escape, eyes catching on a variety of muggle appliances littered about the counters while a spelled scrubber brush cleaned the dishes in the sink. What kind of household did Weasley live in?

Parvati/not Parvati rested her empty hand on Draco’s thigh, high enough for his eyebrows to raise. This was officially inappropriate. Would Weasley do something about her actions? Draco shook his head. It didn’t matter – this wasn’t his life. This wasn’t his problem. Let the git deal with this on his own time. Her hand made a slow crawl higher on his leg.

Draco shot from his seat, the girls gasping from the suddenness. “I apologize, ladies. I have to be going to the shop.”

“The Potions Shoppe?” Parvati/not Parvati said.

“Surely not the Polyjuice? Let Malfoy correct his mistakes,” Granger said, narrowing her eyes in distaste. Obviously, Weasley had shared the unfavorable events from last night. And taken a few liberties.

Draco held back his commentary about who was really at fault. “I – well, Malfoy, that is, needs a second set of hands.”

He stumbled towards the floo and looked about for the powder, but found none on the mantel. “Where do you – er, we keep the…” He trailed off, turning back to the two women who hadn’t left their seats at the table.

They stared at him like he had two heads. He supposed, in a sense, he did.

Parvati/not Parvati pointed to the side table by the sofa where a small jar of powder sat.

Draco took a handful, “Well, er, goodbye.”

He almost felt bad for leaving them with such stunned and confused looks on their faces, but again, Weasley’s problem to handle when all was righted.

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

The backroom of The Potions Shoppe was just as Ron had left it. I.e. in massive disarray.

Malfoy had left so abruptly through the floo that Ron had only rolled his eyes, wiped his face on a nearby rag and gone home himself. The self he was no longer, apparently.

No. Now he sat, still getting used to Malfoy’s long limbs, tapping his foot impatiently against the stone floor. After an hour listening to the cauldrons burbling gently and a faint dripping of Polyjuice from the ceiling, Ron decided to be magnanimous and clean off yesterday’s workbench.

Malfoy’s wand was apparently unhappy being held by a master who was not really its master. The cranky old thing hardly even let him siphon the potion from the various surfaces it had exploded on.

“Why do you own pants that are too short for you?” came Malfoy’s familiar drawl as he stepped from the floo.

Ron huffed, “They are not too short —” But he cut himself off looking at the pale ankles. His pale ankles. Across the room. It was the oddest thing to see himself from outside. Although, Ron had a feeling the straight spine and sneering face was not how he usually moved about the world.

“You didn’t feel like dressing this morning?” Malfoy said, his disdain clear even through Ron’s voice. “Didn’t want to run a comb through my hair?”

Neither had moved from their spots in the room - frozen and staring at one another from across the workbenches. Ron ran a self-conscious hand through Malfoy’s blond hair before remembering his shitty morning. “I didn’t have much time in your flat before I was accosted and nearly assaulted by Pansy Parkinson.”

He watched his own eyes widen at this news. “I usually spend Saturdays with friends.”

An understatement if Ron had ever heard one. “Parkinson seemed to think you were more than friends.”

“As if you have any leg to stand on? You’re the one running a harem in a London townhouse.”

Ron spluttered, an undignified sound even with Draco Malfoy’s posh voice. “I do not run a harem. What even gave you that idea?”

Where had Malfoy woken up? Ron ran through the possibilities, each worse than the last.

Malfoy smirked, a not altogether ugly look on Ron’s face. Is that what Ron would have looked like if he’d been sorted into Slytherin? “As I tried to leave your humble abode, I was similarly accosted by a half naked Granger and her breakfast foods. A moment later Parvati, or not Parvati as it were, was running a hand up my thigh. Needless to say, I left abruptly.”

Ron should have taken a moment to parse through Malfoy’s story, instead he leaned against the bench, entirely unsure where to start.

“Humble…naked Granger? Parvati?”

“Well, that answers one question,” Malfoy sighed.

“Which one?”

“If the dumb look you always have is you or the way your face is. Turns out it’s just you,” Malfoy sniffed, “You’re making my face all blotchy red and ugly.”

Ron gritted his teeth. Maybe if he clenched them hard enough, he could crack Malfoy’s molars.

“Will you please elaborate on your home life?” Malfoy said, cutting off Ron’s daydreams.

“I’ll grant you that I live with two women – which I told you yesterday, by the way – Hermione and Padma.”

“Not Parvati, then,” Malfoy nodded to himself.

“No, not Parvati – why? Did you call her that?” Ron couldn’t help the pang of hope.

“Er… no, she slipped her hand up my leg and I bolted.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Padma tends to do that.”

“And Granger is okay with that?”

“She’s complained once or twice about walking in on us snogging, but it’s Padma’s house so Hermione usually keeps it to herself. Cheap rent for London.” Ron folded his arms across his chest, this unwelcome line of question had him wanting to break up with her all the more.

Malfoy looked horrified.

“What’s your problem, Malfoy? It’s not like we are shagging in the kitchen – things stay behind closed doors.”

“I’m just surprised that your girlfriend is alright with you snogging the landlord, is all.”

Ron starred. Malfoy blinked. Ron grinned, finally realizing Malfoy’s idiocy.
“My girlfriend is my landlord. My girlfriend is Padma and my roommate is Hermione. Hermione and I are not together.” Ron couldn’t help his smile spreading. He couldn’t help the small chuckle - an entirely foreign sound from Draco Malfoy’s chest.

“You aren’t dating Granger?”

“Never have, never will.” Ron wanted to pick at his cuticles, but they were too pristinely cut to get any purchase. “Can we move on to a more important topic, for example, what the fuck happened last night?”

Malfoy blinked for a moment before scowling and moving to the old work bench. “I have no idea. I need to do some research, but none of the ingredients I used would have caused such a reaction. A belated reaction, at that.”

Ron asked the question that had been circling his brain since he’d seen Malfoy’s poncy face in the mirror this morning, “How long will this last?”

Malfoy pursed his lips, “24 hours, presumably.”

“Presumably?”

“Yes, Weasley, presumably,” It sounded particularly harsh coming from Malfoy in Ron’s own body. Ron wondered if he’d ever snarled like that in his life. “I can’t be sure of anything until I do some research.”

Ron put his palms up in surrender, “No need to bite my head off. Just do some spells and send us back to rights. I’ll go tell Kinglsey and Harry while you get on with it.”

Malfoy lurched towards him, “You can’t do that.” His eyes were wide and pleading. Malfoy ran a trembling hand through the familiar red hair.

Ron eyed him warily, “I need to tell my superiors what happened last night. They’re expecting me to go to a Vampyre clan undercover. Someone innocent could be murdered the longer we wait.”

“If they know I fucked this up, they may take away the freedom you offered.”

Ron opened his mouth to respond but Malfoy continued. “It’s been ten years of this, Weasley. Mandatory wand weighings, every purchase I make is scrutinized, random drop-ins to question my whereabouts. This is the closest I’ve been to everything being behind me. I’m not sure what happened last night but if they think I accidentally or, God forbid, purposefully trapped you in my body, I’m ruined.”

Malfoy was rigid against the work bench, his fist clenching and unclenching as he spoke. Ron wondered for a brief moment if this was all on purpose. Trapping Ron in Malfoy’s body would leave Malfoy free to live a life unrestricted from ministry oversight. Ron quickly dismissed this, Malfoy’s angst was proof enough for him.

“Alright,” Ron said. “But, if this goes on too long, we will have to tell my team. It’s too much of a risk.”

Malfoy noticeably relaxed, a deep breath exhaled from his nose, “Of course.”

“We need a plan for the next day at least,” Ron said, falling easily into his role as an auror. “We need to limit contact with others and figure out what went wrong.”

“That’s easy enough for me, I’ll send a message along to my friends not to expect me,” Draco ran a hand through his red hair. “Yours is more of a problem – something about Ginny’s big win?”

Ron paced the work room and cursed, “She had a great game last night, she’ll expect me to be there to celebrate.”

“Well, you can’t go as Draco Malfoy and I can’t waste time with your friends when I should be reading,” Malfoy sneered.

As much as Ron hated to admit it, “You’re right. We can tell them I’m caught up with work. Many of them know I have to visit The Kiss anyways.”

“You can’t do that. Not in my body,” Malfoy spoke like it was already settled. Books had started to float to the bench from his wandless summons. Ron clenched his teeth, reminded of the spoiled little fucker from school.

“Last night you were completely fine with me visiting The Kiss in your body.”

“Last night I assumed that it would be your body doing the work. I can’t let you go to the most dangerous Vampyre clan in England with my real self. What if they kill you? I’d be stuck in your disproportioned body forever with no escape.”

Ron tried not to be miffed by the childish insult. “Disproportioned?”

“Just sit tight today while I work through my hypotheses. Hopefully, by this time tomorrow we will be back to our normal selves and you can take all the risks you want.”

Ron bit his cheek to physically stop his response. Malfoy was just as haughty as he remembered. With narrowed eyes, Ron slunk over to the tea table they sat at just yesterday. If Malfoy wanted Ron’s compliance, he’d make sure to give it to him.

The hours passed slowly, with Malfoy mumbling to himself quietly while Ron chatted amicably. Malfoy would stop to roll his eyes or wave his wand at Ron with some incantation or another, but otherwise kept silent. Ron never moved from his spot at the table, summoning tea and snacks from the cupboards. If Malfoy wanted him to sit tight, he would. Ron availed him of the latest drama in the friend group - namely that Neville was a bumbling fool, Ginny was on the rise to becoming captain of her Quidditch team, and Ron had been looking to break up with Padma for months now. Ron was just describing his most recent attempt where Padma had laughed in his face, when Malfoy finally let out an exaggerated groan.

“Weasley. I’m trying to fix this situation for the both of us. Your incessant gossiping is distracting and irritating. I’m starting to run out of ideas to remedy this situation. So just please. Shut. Up.”

Ron snorted – His rumpled self with short pants and a wrinkled shirt coupled with the posh accent was almost too much to bear. He couldn’t have chosen a worse person to overtake his body.

“If you’re done tinkering, I have a few ideas that may help us get back to normal,” Ron said, ignoring Malfoy’s glare.

“Go on,” Malfoy drawled.

“What if we took Polyjuice potion?”

Malfoy stared at Ron, blinking slowly. “You’re…joking?”

“Maybe we take the potion again and it sends us back to our original selves. Or if it is just normal Polyjuice, at least we are in our own bodies again.”

Ron had a feeling he’d suggested something silly. Malfoy looked to be taking measured even breaths before he closed his eyes to gather himself. Hermione made the same look whenever Ron asked her questions about her work at the Hospital.

“For one, if we consume the same Polyjuice, there’s no telling what sort of effects it will have on us a second time. Sheer dumb luck would send us back to our bodies – but, there is a very real chance we are poisoned by the ridiculous concoction you created last night. Or worse, it enhances the potion’s effects already consumed. Meaning - we’d never be able to undo it.

“Secondly, if we consume normal Polyjuice, as you say, we would be, in all practical respects, admitting defeat. Which I am not prepared to do. Furthermore, it would require a lifetime’s worth of Polyjuice potion which has side effects such as gout, acid reflux, and facial sagging. Not to mention the psychological impact”

Ron grimaced. His great uncle Earl had gout. It was not a pretty sight.

“Any other ideas, Weasley?” Malfoy tapped his fingers against the bench waiting for Ron’s response.

“What if we just –” Ron clapped his hands together in front of him and waited for Malfoy’s reaction.

Malfoy’s eye twitched. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just suggest that. We need dinner.”

Ron blinked at him for a moment, “For once, we agree.”

After transfiguring his pyjamas into denims, Ron led Malfoy from The Potions Shoppe in Diagon Alley into Muggle London. They’d decided a public dinner was too risky and Malfoy refused to order take away, insisting it was for lazy commoners with no taste buds. Ron struggled for a moment on the cobblestone streets to walk like Draco Malfoy before giving up and slouching his aching shoulders.

Malfoy, however, looked perfectly at ease. His hands were in his pants pockets. He was lopping along as if being a Weasley suited him. Sure, Malfoy still had an air of ‘wealthier than thou’ but Ron wondered if others would even tell the difference.

“There is a social contract between restaurant and customer – part of that contract is a clean and vibrant location for dining. Another important line item is seasoning, which I swear they do less of when —” Malfoy cut himself off. “What?”

Ron chuckled, “Nothing, it’s just I haven’t heard you say much of anything the last twenty four hours, but suggest getting take away and the flood gates open.”

He bristled, “I’m a Malfoy, I take my contracts very seriously.”

Hiding an eye roll, Ron opened the door to a burger restaurant.

“Did you not hear me say clean and vibrant, Weasley?”

Ron looked around the space. Ron had never really noticed the plastic banquet seats, paper napkins, and linoleum floors. He had always been too taken with the delicious burgers and chips they served.

“Suck it up,” Ron said, leading the way to the counter.

“If someone sees me here…or sees you, I suppose. Or worse, both of us together…”

“If someone sees us, we have bigger problems on our hands than Draco Malfoy being caught in a muggle restaurant that isn’t on the Michelin Guide,” Ron raised his eyebrows at the cashier before ordering his usual. He doubled it for Malfoy, knowing the prat was out of his depth.

The burgers were greasy enough that they leaked into their paper wrappings. Ron’s mouth watered and almost didn’t notice Malfoy’s hesitation. He jolted when Malfoy brought the plastic fork and knife to the bun.

“Bloody hell, Malfoy,” he whisper-shouted across the table. Ron glanced around, hoping no one saw the pretentious fucker across from him. He wasn’t sure what was worse – Malfoy cutting his burger into bite sized pieces or doing so in Ron’s body. “You should be ashamed.”

Malfoy sneered at him. “Fuck off. I don’t want to get my hands all greasy.” He looked down at his fingers – Ron’s fingers. “On second thought, these are yours.”

Malfoy picked up the burger, shoving a solid quarter in his mouth with the first bite. Ron grimaced, seeing for the first time what Hermione and Harry meant when they said his eating habits made them lose their appetites.

“Merlin, this is delicious. I wondered why I was in so much pain all day. Turns out I was just hungry,” Malfoy said through mouthfuls of burger. He shovelled chips in next.

“Food not made by elves can be good too, you know,” Ron said, starting on his own platter.

Malfoy swallowed heavily, “I don’t have any elves. I cook all my own food.”

Ron choked on a chip while Malfoy acted as though he hadn’t just dropped entirely insane personal information.

“You—” The chime of the front door drew Ron’s attention to Hermione and his sister walking in. “Shit,” he whispered, lowering his head.

Maybe they wouldn’t see them. This was one of Hermione’s favorites. He should never have brought them here. Maybe if Ron just lowered his head…

“Ronald?” Hermione stomped over to them, arms already crossed.

Malfoy looked panicked. Wait – had he stopped breathing?

“You left this morning like a crazy person. We were worried about you. I had to stop Padma from following you through the floo,” Hermione was tapping her foot against the linoleum. Ron knew she was just getting started. He pitied the fool on the other side of her ire – which, for once, wasn’t him. “What are you smirking at, Malfoy?”

“Er…” Ron bumbled.

“From what I hear, you can’t make a simple Polyjuice potion without fucking up.”

Malfoy seemed to blink back to life across the table, “Now wait a minute –”

Hermione didn’t stop, leaning closer to Ron, “You ought to be in your posh little shop brewing up the potion before I do it myself. Honestly, you call yourself a potions master?” She paused for a moment, staring daggers into Ron’s eyes. He hadn’t seen her this worked up since the Wizengamot passed the bill for higher taxes on small businesses. “Come on, Ronald, we’re leaving.”

Ron cleared his throat channeling his inner most high society alter ego, “Sit for a moment. What’s the rush?”

He could’ve sworn Malfoy’s eye actually twitched.

“The rush is that we don’t want to eat with you,” Ginny sneered. It stung when it wasn’t in a sisterly way.

He just raised a manicured brow, “Even for some free chips?”

“C’mon, Mione,” Draco said around his burger. Ron swallowed his grimace – Draco Malfoy was almost too good at impersonating him. Hermione and Ginny both looked like the last thing they wanted to do was join Draco Malfoy at the table but he’d left them with little choice.

The girls went up to order and Ron felt like he could take a deep breath again. He looked at Malfoy whose face was unnaturally pale. “Get it together, Malfoy, you’ll give this whole thing away before we’ve even started.”

Malfoy leaned closer, eyes wide in panic, “This is entirely against our plan, Weasley. What am I supposed to do? How do I act?”

“You mocked me for years in school, I’m sure you can figure it out.”

Once they ordered and scooted into the booth, the four of them sat in an awkward silence. Malfoy kept wiping his hands with the paper napkins until a small mountain was forming on top of his dish.

When Hermione raised an eyebrow at him, Malfoy grinned sheepishly, “They’re greasy.”

“Right.” She looked at Ron, expectantly, “What’s this about? Are you two friends or something?”

“No.”

“Of course not,” they said over each other.

Malfoy wiped his hands on his pants, “More like coworkers.”

“Unwitting colleagues,” Ron confirmed in his best low drawl. He almost wanted to pat himself on the back for that one. “Father always said it was best not to tackle Vampyres by oneself.”

If all Ron had to do was whine and make up stories about Lucius Malfoy, this switch would be a walk in the park.

“Lucius only said that so there would be someone else in the room to use as a shield,” Malfoy said.

Ron couldn’t hold in his chuckle, snorting before covering it up with a cough.

Hermione leaned over to Malfoy, and Ron could just catch her whisper, “Since when are you two so chummy?”

Malfoy raised a brow, not a look Ron would usually go for, but it wasn’t unwelcome, “Are you going to finish that?” He gestured to Hermione’s untouched burger.

She rolled her eyes, “Go for it.”

Malfoy took the burger and winked at Ron as he started to stuff his face. Fucking Malfoy was trying to provoke him in this fucking muggle joint. Ron only had himself to blame. He had told his childhood bully to act like him. Basically granted the prick blanket privileges to mock Ron to his face.

“As fun as this is, some friends are waiting for us at the Leaky,” Hermione stood, throwing a mound of frizz over her shoulder. “I’d say this has been fun, but I can’t even be bothered to lie.”

Ron wanted to grin at her. Snicker at the incessant stubbornness his best friend had. Ginny giggled, following Hermione towards the exit. Malfoy stood to follow, looking for all the world like he was walking to the gallows and not a night at the pub with Ron’s friends. Ron felt caught between horror from all that could go wrong and glee for the torture that this would be for Malfoy.

Ginny called for him, looking expectantly at Malfoy until he trudged out of the restaurant. She shot Ron a sneer before flipping him off and turning her back to him. Hardly a new interaction, even if he was in Draco Malfoy’s body.

Notes:

Hi, Dad!

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

“You daft bastard!”

Draco knew it was true. Although, he assumed Hermione Granger had different and more specific reasons in mind. One minute he was sitting in a complete sty of a restaurant that smelled of the Malfoy family stables, the next Granger was pulling him by the elbow away from Muggle London and towards the Leaky Cauldron.

His twelve hours as Ron Weasley were going about as he expected.

It was easier than he imagined to let out the tension in his shoulders. He didn’t think about what others perceived. He didn’t have to worry about a ministry grunt eyeing him on the street or a particularly excited Gryffindor spitting at his feet. In fact, in the earlier walk from The Potions Shoppe to muggle London, Draco had felt remarkably comfortable.

Granger whacked him on the shoulder, “I leave you alone with Malfoy for one day and you’re suddenly acting all chummy at my favorite restaurant?”

“Foul play, Ron. Malfoy’s a complete arse,” the Weaslette huffed. “I can’t believe you ditched my party in favor of hanging out with that prick.”

“He’s not so bad,” Draco murmured, rubbing the back of his neck.

Granger hit him twice more. He thought it might bruise. Draco had often seen Granger abusing Weasley and Potter from across the Great Hall. He’d chuckle to see her putting them in their place. But now, literally in Weasley’s shoes, it was not as entertaining.

“Who are you and what have you done with Ron Weasley?” Granger stared at him down, unblinking.

Draco felt his eyes widen while he tried to stutter out a response. Was he that obvious? Draco had thought he’d been holding his own as a pauper.

“Leave him be, Hermione,” Potter said, showing up behind them and leaning down to kiss Ron’s sister on her cheek before slipping into a chair. “Working with Malfoy and contending with Padma would be too much even for the strongest warriors.”

Draco rolled his eyes and followed Potter into a seat at the table.

Granger glared at him. He wondered for a moment if she could see beneath Ron’s skin at his marred soul. If she did, she ignored it for now, huffing and sitting across from him.

“Any updates on the case?” Ginny asked, waving at the bartender.

“We have some leads, but it’s confidential,” Potter sighed.

Granger leaned onto her elbows, “But The Kiss is involved?”

Potter looked at Draco accusingly, “You told her?”

Draco narrowed his eyes at Granger. This wasn’t fair. Obviously, Weasley had told Granger about the Vampyre clan’s involvement in the murder, but Draco had not been responsible for that particular fuck up.

“We have reason to believe they are connected,” Potter took off his glasses to clean the smudge that had been there since third year. Honestly, couldn’t he afford a new pair? “We won’t know for certain until we do some deeper investigation.”

Investigation that entailed sending Draco’s body into a Vampyre den with only Weasley’s wit as protection.

“Honestly, you boys are always twiddling your thumbs. I’ll go,” Granger said, haughtily.

Draco couldn’t hold back his scoff.

“You think I can’t, Ronald?”

Hit, for the second time in one day, with the full force of her stare, Draco felt like he’d been struck by a tongue tying curse. Something about the fire in her eyes had him wanting to sit straighter in his chair.

Potter groaned, “Civilians are not allowed —”

“Allowed to join official investigations by the DMLE. Yes, so you’ve mentioned once or twice. However, that meant nothing to you when Dame Elizabeth Pew was poisoning her husband or when Healer Marcus was stealing from patients.”

“Two cases where you were uniquely positioned —”

“I can —”

“You cannot,” Draco cut off the petty squabbling. Granger started to protest but he spoke over her. “The Kiss is not just any Vampyre clan. They are the most dangerous, the most deadly. Not only are you not trained in the delicate maneuvering of Vampyre/wizard relations, but they would hardly accept a muggleborn in their den. It simply is not done.”

Potter slumped in his seat and pinched between his eyes like they’d lost a battle, but Draco felt proud for putting his foot down. Granger would get her blood drained the second she stepped a toe into a Vampyre den. If he was going to do anything in Ron Weasley’s body, it would be making sure the Golden Bleeding Trio kept a low profile – and, with good luck – did not die.

If the ministry were to ever find out that Draco was not only wearing Weasley’s skin, but also at fault for the death of their precious Harry Potter or Hermione Granger — well, let’s just say the semi-annual wand weighings would be the least of his problems. A small part of him (the part that used to chuck bits of slobbery parchment at Granger’s hair) wondered if maybe he should let her go into the den just to see how they would shred her to bits. It would serve her and her friends right for always sticking their noses where they didn’t belong. A greasy feeling slid into Draco’s gut at the thought and he wished he hadn’t eaten that horrible muggle burger.

“You know better than anyone that I’ve built my livelihood on things that are simply not done in the wizarding world.”

Draco huffed, “I know better than anyone that you’ve somehow evaded death despite going against all wizarding conventions of safety.”

He was finding it remarkably easy to tell the truth. He hardly had to pretend to be Weasley at all.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” her voice was shrill. Draco had forgotten it got like that when she got worked up in class.

“It means that you are constantly throwing yourself in danger for the greater good or some such bollocks,” Weaslette raised her eyebrows at this, “and this situation is far too volatile for a member of the public who is untrained and untested.”

Granger smiled and he almost smiled back. But if Draco Malfoy was taught anything from attending approximately 2 million galas, it was how to read a room. Weaslette stared at him in horror and Potter picked at the wood grain of the table.

Draco swallowed, he would not be cowed by Hermione Granger. “What I mean to say is –”

“What you mean is that I am a muggleborn with no possible idea of wizarding relationships and a penchant for running headfirst into situations that I have no business being party to because I am untrained and untested.”

“Yes — I mean,” Draco stuttered when she stood up, chair slamming to the ground behind her. “No, wait.”

Potter was shaking his head, “Let her storm off mate.”

Draco would do no such thing. He followed her out the door back into London, the pub door banging shut in their stead. She was purposefully misunderstanding, the irritating witch. It wasn’t because she was muggleborn. These Vampyres were dangerous to even the most pureblooded wizards. Draco was reminded of their hotheaded school days. Granger could get so worked up with the smallest push. Sometimes he would disagree with her just to see her cheeks redden in fury (see: wet parchment in hair).

“Granger, slow down,” He shouted at her back. “Let me explain.”

Weasley’s long legs carried him down the street until he was just behind her. He grabbed for her hand, startled at his own audacity. She didn’t slap him or jolt away like she’d been shocked as he suspected she would. Instead she kept her hand in his. Something about her warm hand had him clenching his teeth.

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Draco said with as much Weasley-level earnestness as he could muster. “I don’t think you’re some helpless muggleborn who doesn’t belong. What I think – what I know, is that these Vampyres are not to be messed with. My…Malfoy’s father used to deal with them during the war. Apparently, he’d come back pale and clammy — moreso than usual. Draco Malfoy has since refused to be in contact with them and would rather I go in his place. He knows I’m dumb enough to try it. But neither of us are dumb enough to think there isn’t a real danger here.”

It was odd speaking of himself in third person. Odder still to see her softening expression. She’d never looked at him that way before. Their fights in school had always ended in sneers and huffs (and fists the one time). It settled him to see her forgiveness, even if it wasn’t technically for him.

“You’re a wanker.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

She looped her arm through his, steering them back towards the pub. “C’mon I think the others will… wait, what did you call me?”

She had stopped in her tracks, halting Draco with her.

“I didn’t say anything,” he frowned.

“No, earlier, you ran after me and called me ‘Granger,’” She searched his face.

Draco tried not to fidget. “No I didn’t.”

She narrowed her eyes. He chuckled a bit, affixing his goofiest Ron Weasley smile on his face. “Let’s go, Granger.”

She followed his lead, huffing a short laugh.

When they’d made it back to the Leaky, their table had lengthened by three. It seemed like the entire house of Gryffindor was there, giving cheek kisses and patting each other on the back. He almost sneered at the loud camaraderie. Draco froze for a moment before remembering they all saw him as a Weasley. But his new identity didn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t belong. Draco hoped he could blend in and keep quiet. He couldn’t go around calling people Granger and hoping they wouldn’t notice.

It was one night. He could do one night as Ron Weasley.

“Hermione set you in your place then?” Potter said when Draco returned to his seat.

Draco nodded, mutely.

“Serves you right for telling her details about the case. You know she has a bleeding heart.”

Before Draco could respond, another mouth was on his. He pulled back to see Not Parvati puckering her lips, eyes screwed shut. He scrambled away, losing his balance and falling out of the chair and onto the floor. The entire group of Gryffindors went silent, staring at him where he sat. Not Parvati’s face was beat red, her mouth opening and closing.

“Sorry, erm, sorry. Just slipped is all,” he said to the table of Weasley’s friends. He settled himself back in his chair, stealing Potter’s Firewhiskey and downing it in one swallow. He caught Granger’s brows draw together, but the rest of the Gryffindors wearily kicked up their conversations.

He gave a sheepish grin to Not Parvati, subtly angling away from her reach.

“She will find out, you know,” Potter said, leaning over his elbows towards Draco. Potter looked over Draco’s shoulder towards Not Parvati who was talking to Lavender Brown and glancing at Draco rather conspicuously. “You’re being very obvious.”

Draco sucked his teeth, thinking Potter might actually be on to something for once in his life. Ron had mentioned wanting to break up with the girlfriend. Something about Not Parvati crying incessantly and always blathering on about who knows what. He cursed Ron for not breaking up with the bint before they switched bodies. She was set to be a real thorn in his side.

“I know you’d rather capture Vampyres than deal with this situation, but it’s getting out of hand. It’s time you ended things.”

Draco wanted to roll his eyes, instead he answered, “I know. It’s gone on too long.”

Potter seemed pleased with this response and leaned back to join the larger conversation. Weasley would have to grow a pair and break up with the girl. Draco took the moment to survey the group. Everyone looked about the same as their school days – if a bit heavier in the waist and cheeks.

Potter and Ginny Weasley looked especially cozy. There’s a chance they got married a few years ago. He could’ve sworn there were pages on it in the Daily Prophet. But, then again, there were always reports on Potter’s every move in the papers. The spread may as well have been about what the man had for dinner every night.

Ginny wore a sweater with the Holyhead Harpies logo in the corner and a large number 24 on the back. He wondered briefly if she was on the team. Perhaps, this was the big win they’d been discussing at breakfast earlier. Draco didn’t follow Quidditch – didn’t follow much of anything these days if it didn’t include rare potion ingredients. There was a chance the Weaslette was just a big fan.

Across the table, Neville Longbottom was stretching his arms in the air and yawning like it wasn’t only eight p.m. Ever the party animals, these Gryffindors. Seamus something-or-other, his last name was slipping Draco’s mind, sat next to Longbottom and seemed to be driving the conversation. He was gesticulating wildly about a Carbuncle attack he’d witnessed on a recent trip to Chile.

“Carbuncles are good luck,” the wispy voice of Luna Lovegood interjected. Draco could have rolled his eyes at this too, but he found solace in her completely unchanged nature.

“Actually —” Granger started before everyone groaned.

“Not today, Hermione, please.”

“We all know what Carbuncles are.”

“I’m getting a drink.”

“Actually,” she started again, smiling at the uninterested crowd, “Carbuncles are most known for their hardheadness. They are difficult to hunt and even more difficult to catch.”

Draco cleared his throat, “I think you are conflating a few facts, Gr–Hermione. Their hardheadness is much more literal than you make it seem.”

“Of course, their heads are often thought to be actual gemstones. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t also stubborn little creatures.”

“Ah, gemstone or bioluminescent organ?” Draco wagged a finger, “You’re dangerously close to intellectual laziness. While definitive biological evidence remains elusive, the accumulated narrative and environmental context form a compelling argument that the Carbuncle…”

He trailed off. Granger blinked at him. The table was silent, everyone suddenly focused on Draco. He was leaning across the table towards Granger, apparently taken up in the heat of the argument.

“Er, I mean I’m sure you’re right,” Draco cursed to himself, settling back in his chair. What would Weasley say? “Carbuncles can be a piece of work.”

Granger nodded mutely. She looked like someone had hit her with a stunner. Draco tried not to read into it. Surely, Weasley pushed back on her academic tirades every once in a while? One could hardly blame him for correcting her misunderstanding of Carbuncle anatomy.

“Ron.”

The old Hermione Granger would never… Draco stopped himself from evaluating this further. This was none of his business. He didn’t care what Hermione Granger was like as an adult.

“Ron?”

He definitely didn’t care about what she had to say about Carbuncles. Probably something swotty.

“Hello? Earth to Ronald Weasley?” Not Parvati’s hand swatted in front of his face. Fuck. He’d forgotten he was Ron Weasley for a moment. “I’m tired.”

Draco struggled to understand what her statement had to do with him.

He stared at Weasley’s girlfriend for an uncomfortable three seconds while she waited for him to respond. There were two options here. Go home with the girlfriend and deal with the consequences or stay with the Gryffindors at the pub until the girlfriend was asleep so that the real Ron Weasley could deal with the consequences tomorrow. In the end, it wasn’t a very difficult decision after all.

“I’d like to stay with the lads for a bit. I’ll see you at home,” he gave her his best and most innocent grin. Entirely foreign feeling, although not unwelcome.

She huffed, her mouth tilting into a frown. Draco turned back to the table, hoping to ignore any response she had. It was not particularly Gryffindor of him, but then again neither was Ron’s inability to break up with her.

He heard her second huff, this one a little wetter, as she tore away from the table. He did not pity Weasley having to clean up this mess tomorrow. Perhaps, Draco could sleep on the couch tonight, or at The Shoppe. He didn’t want to leave any room for Not Parvati to back him into a corner.

“It’s really just sad at this point,” Longbottom said, fighting another yawn. He gestured at the door that the girlfriend had just slammed shut.

Draco heaved a put-upon sigh, “I know.” He barely even had to act how annoyed he was. Not Parvati was a real menace. “I promise I am going to handle this.”

Weasley. Weasley would handle it.

The table moved on to happier topics, hardly anyone sparing him their attention. Draco was loathe to admit it, but it was almost…nice. The volley of jokes and quips felt familiar. The conversation never veered towards the latest ministry questioning. Arranged marriages and imprisoned parentage were never even alluded to. In fact, these people seemed remarkably well-adjusted for a group that had fought in a war before their brains were fully formed.

He thought of the usual gatherings of his friends. If they weren’t feeling morose and sorry for themselves they’d sometimes play a potions roulette or strip poker. Theo’s liquor cabinet was the source of many a raucous night. But something about sitting around a too small table at the Leaky was just quaint enough to not be boring. No one was stumbling to the bathroom or thinking about future heirs.

Draco shared his thoughts a time or two – though not before practicing it in his head a few times first. No one stared at him like what he said was particularly out of character. The third round of house wine certainly worked in his favor. Until it really really didn’t.

“How’s working with Malfoy?” Seamus asked. His face was red with alcohol and his voice was over loud.

“Still a poncy prick?” Potter patted his hair down while he spoke, as if that could tame it.

“He’s quite fit, really,” the Weaslette said with an air of nonchalance very out of sorts with her statement.

To which half the table spat out their drinks. Draco himself was sputtering in what was probably an ugly rendition of a cod fish.

“Oh, don’t give me that look, Ron,” Ginny giggled, “We all know he doesn’t hold a flame to Harry.”

Draco tried not to protest that.

She went on, “I’m just saying what we were all thinking.”

“I was definitely not thinking that,” Harry groaned.

They all looked at Draco, apparently waiting for his response now that they weren’t talking all over one another.

“Erm, yeah. Total prick and really ugly,” Draco coughed. “Obviously.”

“He’s not quite as pointy as he used to be, is he Gin?” Granger was looking very thoughtful about this and it made Draco squirm in his seat. “And his hair – well, it isn’t so rigid.”

Draco did not appreciate where this conversation was going. He also wouldn’t dare leave when things were just getting interesting.

“Maybe one of the elves took pity on him and stole the pomade,” Ginny said.

Draco felt compelled to defend himself, “He doesn’t have any elves.”

They stared at him, waiting for him to continue. Never had the lot of them been so rapt with attention when he spoke. No sneers or eye rolling or gritted teeth.

“He told me he didn’t have any elves. He lives in a flat by himself. Cooks all his own meals.”

Seamus chuckled to himself. “What – the manor not enough space for him?”

“I imagine he has a lot of bad memories there,” Granger said, a hand twirling her pint on the table. Draco was stunned at her defense. “Who would want to stay in that God awful house?”

“And now he has a bachelor pad out from under mummy’s nose,” Ginny wiggled her eyebrows. She patted Potter’s chest, “Again, love you, Darling, just stating the obvious.

“I was in his potions shop last week,” Lavender said – it’s true, she was. “And I swear he winked at me.”

Draco coughed again, couldn’t help his sputtering. He most certainly did not wink at Lavender Brown.

“No need to be jealous Ron, you and I haven’t dated in over a decade,” Lavender fluttered her eyelashes.

He’d forgotten that little tidbit of Weasley’s history. Then again, that year he’d been consumed with thoughts of a certain vanishing cabinet and Dark Lord.

“This isn’t real, right?” Potter asked, his eyebrows nearing his hairline. “We are all just joking about Malfoy being attractive and… flirty? This is Draco Malfoy. He made his amends a few years ago and he’s kept quiet ever since. But that doesn’t mean he’s … you know —”

“Fuckable?”

More choking and spitting of drinks from Ginny’s crassness. Draco wanted to simultaneously sink deep deep into the earth and also jump onto the table and reveal his true identity. To see their faces when they realized – well, Draco would die a happy man.

“Please, Ginny, there’s more to a man than his looks,” Granger hid her giggle. “At the end of the day: Draco Malfoy is a bad guy. He’s sullen, unintelligent, and hostile. One may be able to sleep with him – but they wouldn’t get much else.”

“You should sleep with him and find out.” The words were out of Draco’s mouth before he could stop them. It was not what he wanted, to prove her wrong. Or worse, prove her right.

Potter cleared his throat, “Definitely don’t do that.”

“You should, Hermione,” Seamus cheered, banging the table and sloshing everyone’s drinks. “You can report back after it’s done.”

“Treat him poorly and show him how it feels,” Lavender piped up.

“Maybe you’ll fall in love,” Lovegood said, twirling her hair.

Draco felt like he couldn’t get a full breath into his lungs.

Granger gulped down the rest of her wine, “I won’t be sleeping with Draco Malfoy. He could be the hottest bloke on the planet, but he’ll always be a slimy git through and through.”

The table loudly agreed, Draco plastering on a fake smile and downing his own whiskey.

He didn’t say much the rest of the night. He didn’t care what Granger thought of him – nor any of the others at the table. He worked very hard for people to think of him as a slimy git, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he was perceived that way.

But even as he went back to Ron’s house and curled himself onto the lumpy couch, a certain kind of shame made it difficult for him to swallow. His only hope lay in waking up back in his bespoke bed far away from Gryffindors and their idiotic dares.

He thought for a moment that all was back to normal. He had felt weightless, just on the edge of sleeping and waking. Light was shining across his eyelids and it was so reminiscent of the light in his flat, he could almost pretend he didn’t feel the horrible metal spring digging into his back.

It was then that he was suffocated by a monstrous orange creature that must’ve arrived in the home straight from the depths of Hell.

And thus started Draco’s second day as Ron Weasley.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

It was clear to Ron that Draco Malfoy had very little to complain about.

Every item of clothing the man owned was perfectly tailored. The blankets on the couch were deliciously cozy and didn’t have a single cat hair. His bathroom sink had a row of products of whatever insane nightly routine Malfoy partook in. Every cabinet was filled with meticulously organized foods. The marble kitchen counters didn’t have a crumb on their surfaces.

There were no unwanted girlfriends attaching themselves to his neck. Or wearing his sweaters. Or asking him inane questions.

Ron was in heaven.

His evening started quietly in Malfoy’s flat. The first undisturbed evening he’d had in a long time (years, potentially). He loved his family – was incredibly grateful for them – his abundance of nieces and nephews. But sometimes a bloke needs a whiskey in front of the fire in silence.

His first problem came in the form of his stomach grumbling. Malfoy had all the fixings to make a Molly Weasley level supper and Ron had not a single clue how to put it all together. Of course, Ron could make a meal. He was an adult. He was a Wizard. But, and he was always the first to admit it, he was incredibly lazy. Making a three course meal with the chicken and the greens and the stock and, really, what was a man to do with the container of roasted walnuts?

Ron cursed Malfoy for not having any elves – absolutely ridiculous that Malfoy had grown up and decided to be decent or something. Ron debated ordering take away, but if Draco Malfoy could make his own bloody dinner, so could Ron.

Reminiscent of a certain potion explosion, the kitchen was soon covered in goop and raw foods. Nothing Ron tried tasted remotely familiar. If he didn’t know better, he’s say that Malfoy was sabotaging him. Surely, the chicken was already bad. How could someone mess it up so bad that it tasted like foot?

His second problem came in the form of Pansy Parkinson stepping through his floo.

“What on Earth have you done?”

Ron smeared a hand on his pants – that’ll serve Malfoy right for saddling him without dinner. “I’m making supper.”

Pansy’s eyes narrowed on the new stain, “I haven’t seen your kitchen like this since your probation ended.”

Ron raised his eyebrows at her, unwilling to say anything that could give him away.

Luckily, she couldn’t without a response, “I come for a home cooked meal and I find you experimenting again. I’m starving, Draco.”

Ron looked around at his mess again, biting his lip. “Let’s go out then. There’s a great place on –”

He cut off at her cackle.

“Go out? We can’t go out,” She cackled again.

“Why not?”

“Unless your idea of a good dinner includes being spat at and hexed to oblivion, I really don’t think we should leave.”

Ron blinked at her. Did that actually happen to them? Still?

Ron knew there were reports of harassment after the war, but they’d peetered out over the years. He hadn’t heard of any complaints in a long time.

“Er…” He stumbled through a decent response.

“Can’t you just make the Shepherd’s Pie we like?”She pouted, taking her cloak off and sending it through the air to the closet.

She was here to stay apparently.

“How about I pick up some kebabs?”

Pansy sniffed, “Sounds meaty.”

“You’ve never had them?”

“Of course not. I’m a lady.”

Ron huffed, “You’ll hate it then, but if you want to stay friends, then you need to pretend to like it.”

Imagine that – friends with Pansy Parkinson. A few days ago he would’ve laughed until he turned blue.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he’d seen a shop just down the street. It wouldn’t take him long, but he worried about leaving Pansy in the flat. Except she looked mighty comfortable in the armchair by the fire. She had her legs swung over one velveted arm, her dress riding up a bit on her thighs. Not that he was looking at her thighs.

She started filing down her nails, “Get enough for the others or they’ll be pissed.”

It took him until ten steps out the door to question who the others might entail. When he returned, paper bag of kebabs and dressings in arm, his third problem waited for him in Malfoy’s living room.

They were all lounging about as if they owned the place. Ron was sure that he owned the place – well, Malfoy, that is – but he couldn’t be certain.

“So then I said, ‘If I wanted to kill your son, I would’ve done it last year when he put a toad in my tea.’ And they didn’t like that much,” Theodore Nott said, sprawled on the couch, a glass of Ogden’s already in hand.

“Imagine that,” Blaise Zabini drawled next to him.

“McGonagal was not impressed. She made that face like she’d just eaten a sour toad.”

Ron swallowed a snort, he could picture her face very clearly.

“Oh yes, I know that one well,” Vincent Crabbe nodded from the chair across from Pansy. “Always so disappointed in my abysmal transfiguration skills.”

“Nothing’s changed then,” Pansy said. “Don’t just stand there, Draco. We’re hungry.”

Ron had forgotten to move, too caught up in whatever the fuck was happening.

Crabbe huffed, “I don’t need to transfigure things at The Shoppe, I don’t get any practice.”

“Do you use the same excuse with women?” Zabini said into his glass.

“Ha ha,” Crabbe responded by throwing a pillow at him.

“Where’s dinner, mate?” Nott finally looked at Ron, eyebrows raised in question at the greasy bag. “Who did you fight in the kitchen?”

“He ordered us kebabs,” Pansy chuckled.

“The fuck?”

“Have you finally gone mad?”

“But it’s Shepherd’s Pie night,” Crabbe said, sullenly.

Ron stared at the whinging Slytherins in Malfoy’s living room. He felt massively over his head. One he could maybe, potentially handle. But four?

“We are having kebabs tonight,” he punctuated his statement by tossing the bag onto the coffee table and summoning the plates.

They stared at him like he had two heads, but Ron just started serving himself a few skewers. Confidence. Confidence would convince them.

Pansy leaned over to Zabini and whispered, “He tried to get us to go out.”

Zabini looked almost ill, picking his own skewer from the box. “I might have preferred it.”

Ron pretended not to hear, knowing any verbal response could doom him. He turned his back to them (against all of his carefully cultivated auror instincts) and muttered a few spells under his breath to get the kitchen back to rights.

“Anyways, now McGongall has me on warning,” Theo sighed. “One more infraction and I could get sacked.”

“That’s bullshit,” Crabbe said through a mouthful.

“She’s just trying to keep the parents happy,” Theo looked bored but Ron could swear it upset him more than he was letting on.

Pansy summoned a fork and knife, “There’s a ball next weekend if that makes you feel better.”

Theo rolled his eyes, “Oh that’s okay, you don’t need to throw a party for me, Parks.”

“Narcissa’s charity reached a million galleons donated for St. Mungo’s,” Pansy said with a smirk.

“Well, if anyone deserves a party, it should be her.”

The pillow was thrown across the room again.

Ron had learned more about Theodore Nott within one conversation than he had in all his years at Hogwarts with the man. Nott was unassuming. He had curly dark brown hair and blue eyes. He was tall and lanky, a quality that had looked awkward in the classroom but, having apparently filled out, was now room commanding.

He remembered that Nott’s mother had died when they were very young, but wasn’t sure under what circumstances. Nott’s father was one of the Death Eater’s close to Voldemort and was at the Department of Mysteries the night Ron was attacked by the brains. Nott had that look – they all did – like he knew Ron’s every thought and any future movement. Like he was always three steps ahead in a game Ron didn’t even know they were playing.

Even sitting around a fire with his friends, Nott seemed guarded. Ron had gathered through their conversation that he worked at Hogwarts, what subject he was teaching Ron wasn’t sure. It made sense though, Nott had always been smart. It also made sense that the parents weren’t particularly thrilled with his placement at the school. Reformed or not, it was difficult to look past the haunted look in his eyes.

Crabbe, meanwhile, seemed taken with the kebabs. Had none of the Slytherins ever eaten skewered lamb before? Ron found it difficult to believe, but the way Pansy cut hers in delicate squares, proved him wrong.

Nott had just called Crabbe ‘Vinnie’ and it made Ron’s eyes widen so much they could’ve popped from his skull. It was odd to see them acting normal and teasing. Crabbe was just as dopey as in school. Pansy was, well, perfect. He’d never given her a second glance in school (on account of her being attached to Malfoy’s face half the time). Zabini seemed to have an air thick with secrets around him. When Zabini placed a hand on Nott’s thigh and squeezed, Ron choked on his drink.

He wiped his eyes with a napkin, claiming wrong pipe until everyone stopped staring at him.

This was a new development. Or at least it was to Ron. It could be a year’s old development. Who knew when Malfoy found out about it. There was a chance he actually didn’t even know, still.

“This is the most amazing thing I’ve ever eaten in my life,” Nott licked his fingers of the leftover grease. “And that includes that delicious roast duck they served two years ago at Madame Clover’s New Year’s Eve party.”

“May she rest in peace,” Pansy said.

“You hated her,” Crabbe huffed. “You clapped when she died.”

“No,” Pansy moved her plate away. An invitation to take her leftovers if Ron had ever seen one. “I hated her parties, which were stuffy and boring. She was, otherwise, a very lovely woman. One could only hope to reach her level of elegance. When she died, so did her awful parties. Really, her death spared us all.”

Ron had never heard of Madame Clover, but could only assume she was some paragon of pureblood high class.

“Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not selfless, Parks.” Theo patted her hand.

“Now, you listen —”

Zabini cut her off, standing from his seat and summoning the cloaks, “This has been lovely, but we ought to be going. Draco, the … meat… was good. But let’s stick to the usual, yeah?”

Ron nodded his head dumbly, as Zabini and Nott left as abruptly as they arrived – hand in hand – through Malfoy’s floo.

“I thought the kebabs were delicious,” Crabbe rubbed the back of his neck. “If the others weren’t so uptight, I’d say add it to the rotation.”

Ron snorted, finding it equally funny that Crabbe also thought the snakes were uptight and that he was actually agreeing with Vincent Crabbe.

Crabbe glanced at Pansy before swallowing heavily. “I have an appointment Wednesday.”

Ron waited for the rest, but Crabbe just stared expectantly.

“Okay. Erm… good luck with that.”

“Draco won’t be able to join,” Pansy said. “He has tea with his mother scheduled. You know how Narcissa is, especially with a big party coming up.”

This was the first Ron was hearing of an upcoming tea with Malfoy’s mum. But he had a feeling something larger was being discussed.

“I understand,” Crabbe stood and headed towards the floo. “He’s asking for you though. I do what I can, but I can’t hold him off forever.”

Without waiting for Ron’s response he whirled away in the green flames. Who was asking for Malfoy? Why would Crabbe hold him off, and how? Ron’s brain raced. He almost wanted to cancel whatever tea party with Narcissa he had scheduled so that he could sate his curiosity. But, better the devil you know than the one you don’t, Harry’s voice echoed in his head. But what if the devil you know was a psycho-manipulative-high society —

Ron’s thoughts were cut off by the shattering of glass. His head whipped to Pansy who already had her wand trained on him. Her whiskey dripped down the wall.

“What year did I take your virginity?”

Ron had to physically swallow down the slew of curses rising in his throat. Instead, a chorus of fuck and shit danced around his brain. She knew. He wasn’t sure what gave him away. But she definitely knew.

“Pansy–” He took a slow step towards her.

“Don’t Pansy me. You haven’t called me that in two decades.”

Fuck.

He might’ve said it out loud this time.

“You tell me when I took your virginity or we can skip right to you telling me who you are.”

Another slow step towards her. Hands, palms out, and at chest level. Face the suspect. Look open, safe. The protocol flowed through him like second nature.

“Stop moving,” she shook her wand at him – a few sparks falling to the floor and leaving black soot stains on the oriental rug.

Ron took a wild guess, “Sixth year.”

The stunner was a surprise – not because he wasn’t expecting it but because the sheer force of it had him on his back yards from where he stood just a moment ago. This witch was stronger than he’d realized. Under estimating the opponent was never wise. Thank Merlin no one from the Auror’s office saw this. Luckily, if they had, they’d have seen Malfoy being absolutely bodied by a third year spell from a bloody socialite.

“Who are you?”

Ron groaned, struggling to fill his lungs back up with air. “Guess.”

She gasped, “You have some audacity coming in here and pretending to be Malfoy. Now, you want me to guess?”

Pansy sat primly on the sofa, wand still trained at Ron. “We can wait like this until the polyjuice wears off. Then you can explain yourself.”

“Fantastic,” he replied through clenched teeth. Sunrise couldn’t come soon enough. “While we wait, do you mind sharing what gave me away?”

“It’d be easier to tell you what didn’t give you away.”

“It was the dinner wasn’t it?”

Pansy’s lips twitched, but she didn’t smile. “Among other things.”

“And the messy kitchen?”

“Draco is a fantastic cook.”

Ron knew he cooked all his own meals, but still had a hard time picturing Malfoy as a ‘fantastic cook.’

“We also didn’t sleep together until well after school. Draco lost his virginity to Daphne Greengrass.”

Now this was interesting information. Ron had just assumed... “The phrasing of your question was misleading.”

“Of course it was. That is the nature of security questions for identity verification.”

Ron slipped his wand from his pocket, still clutching his side in faux pain.

“Your shoulders are quite slouchy too, you’re not holding yourself —”

“Expelliarmus!” Ron lept from his spot on the floor and Pansy’s wand flew into his waiting fist. “I’m sorry about this, Pansy. Actually, I’m not sorry at all. But there are no hard feelings. I actually think I could like you all things considered.”

He twirled the two wands in his fingers, pacing in front of where she sat rigid on the sofa.

“Are you with the ministry?”

Ron paused – a second too long – she pursed her lips at his confirmation.

“Is Draco in some kind of trouble?”

“No, no. He’s fine. I’m sure he’s fine.” Ron wasn’t entirely sure how Malfoy was fairing in the hands of the Gryffindors. He was equally horrified and excited by the idea of Malfoy trying to blend in amongst the plebeians.

“You mean you don’t know where he is?”

“Not at this particular moment…no.”

Pansy stood, a new ire in her eyes. Lesser men surely cowered under her gaze. She flicked what looked like (an illegal) goblin dagger from under her skirt. Where on earth had she been hiding that? Ron was, indeed, lesser men and gulped, stepping quickly back as she prowled towards him.

His back hit the mantle and he raised his hands. “I’m an auror – that’s all I can tell you.”

“I want to know who you are and where Draco is,” the dagger grazed his cheek. God, Malfoy would murder him if Ron scarred the git’s precious face.

Ron, more concerned for his life than he had been in most of his time as an auror, gulped. “Malfoy is most likely at the Leaky Cauldron,” His throat worked, the dagger now pressing against the soft skin under his chin. “I’m Ronald Weasley.”

Pansy barked a laugh, “Yeah fucking right. And I’m Hermione Granger.” She grinned, flipping the dagger away too quickly for him to see where she hid it. He wasn’t at all distracted by the brightness of her smile.

This was not the response he was expecting. “You believe me?”

“Of course not. As if Draco would ever allow for Weasley to do this,” Pansy chuckled. “Maybe you’re smarter than I thought you were for trying to pull that one.”

Ron was unsure what was happening, but didn’t want to let the moment pass, “Maybe we can help each other out here? A little quid pro quo?”

She crossed her arms and tapped her pointed shoe on the floor in a steady, if irate, beat. “Go on.”

“You’ll help me act more like Malfoy. I have some tasks I need to complete in his skin and it would be pertinent that no one else finds out.” He stepped towards her, crowding her space. A classic auror intimidation technique. It also works on older brothers who are prone to pranking.

She was not cowed by his tactics, barely even stepping back, “What do I get in return?”

“What do you want?” What does a man give to a woman who has access to everything? He always knew she was a spoiled brat. He sidestepped her, breaking the eye contact that they’d held for an abnormally long time.

“You’re horrible at this and whatever respect I had for whoever you are is weaning.” She followed him to the opposite end of the room where they once again stood in each other’s air space.

Ron narrowed his eyes, “This is my first time. Be gentle.”

Another twitch of her lips. Ron found himself enjoying making Pansy Parkinson almost laugh.

“If I don’t know who you are, I don’t know what you can give me.”

Fucking Slytherins. If he never had to make a deal with them again, it’d be too soon. Pansy prowled even closer to him – close enough that their toes touched.

“What do you want?” He asked again.

“I want Draco back.”

Ron tsked, “I can’t give you that. I told you – unfinished business.” And the little problem that they had zero control over returning to their own bodies. With any luck, Parkinson would teach him the ins and outs of being Draco Malfoy, Ron would fly back to his own body tonight and then they could try again next week. Ron liked this plan.

She rolled her eyes at him.

“Draco is unavailable right now. But maybe I could give you money?”

“I have more than enough.”

“Clothes?” Ron grimaced.

“I’ll ignore that you even said that,” Pansy scoffed.

“Please,” Ron practically begged.

“I want in.”

Ron hesitated, “In what?”

“In on this,” She waved her hands around them, “mission or whatever you’re doing.”

He raised his eyebrows. Involving more people was not preferred. Especially if such people were annoying, prim, distracting, Slytherins.

“I’m bored, okay?” Pansy paced towards the couch, sitting herself down in a huff. “A few years ago, things were bad for us. Dangerous. Children of Death Eaters. It didn’t matter if we hadn’t actually taken part in any of the…”

“Genocidal mania?” Ron helpfully supplied.

“Right.” She paused to swallow. Ron stayed where he stood, worried he’d follow that voice in his head telling him to go to her.

“I seem to remember you willing to turn a certain chosen one over to Voldemort the night of the battle at Hogwarts.”

She flinched at the name. “I was scared.”

“We were all scared.”

Pansy swallowed again, “It’s not my proudest moment. I apologized to Potter about it a few weeks after.”

Harry never told him that.

“So I should just believe you’re reformed? Maybe you deserve to be banned from public places.” Ron knew it was harsh the moment he said it, but her impeccable posture didn’t falter, even as her lower lip trembled for just a moment. “Are you saying you’re a good person now? You have a dagger strapped to your thigh.”

She exhaled a laugh, “No, I’m not a good person. But I prefer to think I’m not a – what did you say before? – Genocidal maniac. I contribute funds to the muggle studies program at Hogwarts. I send books to muggle borns who have shown their first signs of accidental magic. And I babysit these,” she gestured to the room, “depressed fuckers who can hardly seem to get out of bed without being called a Death Eater when all they did was what their parents told them to do. One day it’s all a joke and the next someone is being tortured on your ballroom floor.”

They sat in an awkward silence, both aware that she’d said more than she meant to.

“We can’t leave the flat for fear of being seriously injured or publicly shamed. I’ve paid my dues – figuratively and literally. But I still eat dinner on this sofa every night because I’m too scared to go out in public. And too traumatized to eat at my manor. We are too safe here, I feel like I’m in prison. So, I want in and I want you to use whatever sway you have in your real life and make it so I can go shopping without using a mail order catalogue."

Ron wet his lips. He wasn’t sure Pansy had ever spoken for so long in front of him without bullying someone in the same breath. He wasn’t sure he believed her.

Okay, he definitely believed her. He just wasn’t sure if teenage Ron could accept it. He weighed the consequences of letting her into the case with the DMLE. It would be helpful to have someone on the inside, especially if the polyjuice lasted longer than 24 hours (shudder). It also, begrudgingly liked her company and felt she was downplaying just how different she was from the girl he knew in school. It was also to his advantage that apparently she would never believe he was Ron Weasley.

“What makes you think I’m not some ruffian? What if I’m not good or important enough to do this for you?”

“You are,” she flicked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re horrible at negotiations.”

“I take offense to that.”

“You used the word ruffian.”

Ron felt his own lip twitch. He liked when Pansy Parkinson almost made him laugh.

—

Unsurprisingly, the key to becoming Draco Malfoy was snobbery, fuckery, and being relentlessly dismissive.

Head high, chin up, nose in the air. A look of disgust like the nouveau riche had just passed him and smelled like feet. Pansy had Ron practicing his sigh for an hour at least.

“No, no, that’s too wistful,” she said, gripping his chin. They’d migrated closer together on the couch so that their knees were touching. The bottle of bordeaux passed between them. “It’s more through the nose and less mouth-breathing. Remember to sneer a little, yes that’s a bit better.”

“Your standards are impossibly high.”

“If you can convince me, you can convince anyone,” She brought the wine bottle directly to her lips, forgoing the glasses they’d summoned earlier. “Draco is powerful and condescending. Everything in the world must pass his judgement in order to be deemed acceptable. That is the Malfoy way.”

Ron rolled his eyes, but it was a decent look at what made Malfoy tick. “And you? What is the Parkinson way?”

She took an unladylike swig, “The Parkinson way is whatever the Malfoys say. They are the standard for which we all hold ourselves to.”

“But, why? Malfoy is such a pointy prick.” Ron took the bottle from her, taking his own gulp.

Pansy waved a hand, “Generations of wealth and status. My parents have been trying to marry us off since we were children.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“That’s pragmatic. They want me to be happy – and by happy, I mean wealthy and influential,” She sighed with the perfect aristocratic lilt that she’d been trying to teach him. “It’ll happen soon too. Draco has been trying to hold it off for a few years now. He knows I want my freedom. But, my mother will only wait so long.”

“Arranged marriages. It’s insane.”

“You obviously aren’t pureblooded then.”

He didn’t bother to correct her.

“Let’s move on to walking,” Pansy stood and held out her hand to him. He let her help him up, the wine causing him to sway a bit as he stood and making her hand feel warmer than it was. Of course Malfoy was a fucking lightweight.

“Do I not even walk right?”

“Shoulders back,” she pushed the tips of her manicured fingers into his chest, “Further. No, further.”

“I feel like I’m doing a bloody backbend.”

“Good. Now, we don’t walk, but glide.” Pansy walked across the room. Even precariously positioned on impossibly tall heels, her stride was uninterrupted and elegant. “Remember, you’re bored. The very act of existing among ordinary people is a charitable exercise.”

“Rubbish,” Ron snorted. “You don’t actually believe that.”

The perpetually bored look from Nott and Zabini was starting to make sense. The way all the Slytherins shoved the younger kids out of their way as they walked down the school halls.

“You’re Draco Malfoy. If you believe it, other people will believe it.”

Ron groaned under his breath, “It couldn’t have been any one else.”

“I didn’t catch that. Never mumble. It’s unbecoming.”

He rolled his eyes, shocked they hadn’t gotten stuck in the back of his head by now. Thinking of the bored looks reminded him though, “Hey, are Nott and Zabini sleeping with each other?”

“Of course,” Pansy inspected her nails. “Took the real Draco ages to figure that one out. Although, they are much more open about it these days. We’ve never discussed it, but we all know.”

“Sounds lonely.”

“We don’t need your pity,” she sneered, falling back into the couch cushions. He followed her.

“Isn’t my pity the whole reason I’ve let you join in on my investigation?”

She perked up at that, “You haven’t said anything about it. Go on, then. I’ve given you at least an hour’s worth of Malfoy training. Now, pay up.”

Ron bit his cheek. He had to be very careful about what he told her. Nothing too incriminating. Nothing about his true identity or what happened last night. Stick to public facts about the investigation only.

“I am an auror,” He spoke slowly, as if to catch himself before fucking up. “We are investigating a series of murders across England. A Vampyre has drained the blood of seemingly random muggles. They’ve left a calling card at each crime scene.”

He summoned a quill, etching the double Xs on a cocktail napkin.

“The Kiss,” Pansy looked at him with wide eyes. She looked – scared. “That’s why Draco is involved.”

Ron nodded, “Yes.”

“Is he in danger?”

“He wasn’t supposed to be,” Ron decided to tell the truth, for the mess they’d fallen into was far from the original plan. “Now, I’m not so sure.”

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

Ron woke with his arms wrapped around Padma. He almost groaned when he realized he was back with his old girlfriend. He’d almost liked his evening with Pansy. Though he shuddered to admit it and would be keeping the feelings from anyone who asked. Not that anyone was asking. He wondered if anyone had noticed Ron wasn’t himself last night. Pansy had noticed quickly enough – enough to insult Ron’s confidence in playing Malfoy and enough to cause Ron to waiver in his security that Malfoy was living a secluded life with no friends and no prospects.

It was then that Padma shifted and she felt very un-Padma-like. She smelled different too. Ron squinted his eyes open, trying his best not to let the sunlight scar his retinas. Apparently, three shared bottles of bordeaux was not wise.

And was also the explanation for why he was currently holding Pansy Parkinson extremely close to his chest on Draco Malfoy’s couch. He scrambled away, feeling immediately cold.

This was highly inappropriate. Best to keep this to himself. Malfoy did not need to know he’d been spooning his, well, not girlfriend per se, but future wife, at least.

Yes, Malfoy would never have to know. And Ron could easily ignore the swirling feelings of relief when he had realized it was not Padma he had been cuddling. Easily.

Pansy stirred, but didn’t wake. Slept like a rock, this one. A grin tugged at his mouth. A woman after his own heart. She looked peaceful. She didn’t have that pinched look that he’d grown to recognize after hardly eight hours together.

They had spent the entire night passing the wine bottles back and forth. Pansy told him everything he needed to know about Malfoy. Ron told Pansy about The Kiss and his plan to infiltrate their den as Malfoy. She did not like this one bit, but a few more gulps of wine and a half joke or two had her softening to the idea. She also insisted that she would be going with him. Not likely. But Ron didn’t tell her that.

Ron had learned that Malfoy liked to read (nearly as much as Hermione, if he understood Pansy correctly). He preferred coffee over tea. Black – no cream or sugar – he could’ve guessed that. He loved his friends and would do anything for them. He had thrown his signet ring into the Thames after a particularly raucous night in Muggle London after leaving Hogwarts. Ron hated the git on principle but felt a begrudging respect blooming for that one.

At one point or another, Pansy had fallen asleep. Their shoes had been kicked off onto the rug, their legs tangled together. Ron remembered liking that. Remembered thinking it curious that she would trust him – a stranger – while she slept on Malfoy’s couch. It was also curious that he trusted her – a complete nuisance on all accounts – while he, too, slept. Apparently they’d twisted and turned in their sleep. One of them had summoned a blanket.

Ron slipped his shoes back on, pretending not to feel the flip in his stomach when he thought of how it felt to wake up and smell the soft lavender of her hair. Hilarious that he had thought for even a second that it was Padma.

He left through the floo, feeling all at once like he’d gained a friend and like he was being lured into a preplanned trap. Perhaps that was a normal night spent with a Slytherin.

When he entered The Shoppe, he was immediately accosted by Ron Weasley. Well, Malfoy as Ron. A sight he would never get used to.

“Weasley, we have to figure out what the fuck is going on.” Malfoy looked completely unhinged in panic. He was sweaty and pale. His fingers were trembling where they clenched Ron’s already rumpled button down.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Everything. Everything fucking happened to me.” Malfoy pushed back from him, running about the back room and sifting through vials like his life depended on it.

“Slow down, mate. It can’t have been that bad to be me,” Ron summoned himself a cup of tea while he took a leisurely seat at the table, “Just start from the beginning.”

Malfoy looked at him over his shoulder, “Can’t have been that bad? How about when Granger’s cat bloody mauled me this morning. Or last night when we were at the Leaky and they said they wanted to sleep with me.”

This had Ron cocking his head, “Who said they want to sleep with me?”

“No, not you, me,” Malfoy pointed at himself, Ron Weasley.

“Ron.”

“No, you absolute idiot, me!” Malfoy was practically shouting now, “They were talking about the case and I came up in conversation and then your bloody sister said Malfoy was fit and then they all bet Granger that she’d sleep with me.”

Ron felt the blood drain from his face. “They what?”

“Your little Gryffindor friends want Granger to sleep with Draco Malfoy. Which is all well and good, except Draco Malfoy is not himself right now, is he? She’d be sleeping with you,” he pointed a shaky finger at Ron.

“Alright, alright, calm down,” Ron stood from his seat, pouring Malfoy a cup of coffee. “I’m not going to let that happen. Neither of us wants to sleep with Hermione.”

Malfoy took heaping breaths, hardly able to hold the coffee that floated towards him. “That’s not all.”

“What else did they do?”

“Not them,” Malfoy rubbed the back of his neck. “I, a little bit, broke up with Padma this morning. Or she broke up with me. Either way, it seems things have ceased being romantic between the two of you.”

Now this was interesting. Very interesting indeed.

Ron kept calm, though he felt oddly like jumping in joy and pumping his fist in the air. “How on earth did that happen?”

Malfoy took several more seconds to breathe, “That stupid cat –”

“Kneazle.”

“Oh fuck off,” Malfoy slammed his hand on the work bench, rattling the bottles that he’d discarded there. “Sorry, but Granger only reminded me of that fifty times this morning. Anyways, the Kneazle attacked me. I was out on the couch, sleeping soundly, despite the lumps. A new couch is in order, it’s just not healthy. It was barely light out and suddenly I’m being suffocated by this rotten old beast.”

“Mmhmm. He does that,” Ron nodded, having experienced the Crookshanks alarm more than once.

“He could have killed me.”

Ron crossed his arms, “You are so dramatic.”

“I’m realistic,” Draco huffed. “The Kneazle was latched onto my face and I may have shouted a bit – waking up your harem.”

“It’s not a bloody harem, Malfoy.”

“Yes, yes. So Granger comes in and she’s shrieking about me hurting the cat and – okay, let me explain – I was in just my trunks because it is so bloody hot in your house. I couldn’t sleep in my clothes and your girlfriend was already in the bedroom so I wasn’t going to risk going in there for pyjamas.”

“Get to the point.”

“My point is I was mostly naked and I guess Granger sleeps similarly unclothed as she was only in a t-shirt. And, well, Padma came in and saw us struggling, except the Kneazle conveniently stopped his attack and there we were standing in our unmentionables looking all the more like we’d just finished ravishing each other.”

Ron tucked his lips into his mouth to stop the laughter bubbling up. He snorted instead.

“Apparently, an affair with Granger is one of your girlfriend’s sore spots.”

An understatement, if Ron had ever heard one. Padma was incredibly jealous of Ron and Hermione’s relationship – even when he had assured her time and again that there was nothing whatsoever between them other than years of friendship.

“She berated me for an hour. She flipped alarmingly quickly between crying and screaming and back again. When I suggested we should call a healer she started throwing your clothes out the window,” Malfoy looked sheepish, “I see now that it was the wrong thing to say, given that Granger is, in fact, a healer.”

Ron snorted again, still trying to keep his laughter at bay.

“I’m glad you’re finding joy in this complete disaster. Your girlfriend has kicked you – i.e. me – out of your flat. I’m homeless, Weasley. All because your girlfriend thought she saw Granger and I in the throes of passion and swore up and down that I had also been making eyes at her last night.”

“She’s like that.”

“She’s bloody awful.”

“You did me a huge favor, actually. I’ve been meaning to break up with Padma for ages.”

“So I hear,” Malfoy started sifting through the vials again, as a cauldron started floating towards him, settling itself on an already lit burner. “We are putting ourselves back to rights. I will not be dealing with the fallout of your ruined relationship. Being present for the break up itself was plenty.”

“Well, I don’t want to be present for the fallout of the break up, either. I much prefer Pansy’s company.”

Malfoy paused, blinking up at Ron. There was a chance Malfoy wouldn’t like the new friendship Ron had with Pansy.

“What do you know about Pansy’s company?”

Ron cleared his throat, “Nothing, er, explicit. Her and your other mates showed up at your flat last night for dinner.”

“Dammit,” Malfoy curled his hand into a fist. “I forgot about dinner.”

“I tried to make something, but it didn’t go well. So, I ordered kebabs.”

Malfoy paled, freckles standing out, “Kebabs?”

“It got mixed reviews.”

“Pansy knows, obviously.”

Ron shrugged, “She figured it out fairly quickly, yeah.”

“Did you even try to act like me?”

“Of course! Pansy is quite shrewd, though.”

Malfoy practically growled, “Hermione Granger is shrewd but I somehow managed to act like a bumbling bloody idiot all night to protect this secret. Need I remind you, Weasley, what’s at stake?”

Ron looked to the ceiling, “I have a feeling you’ll remind me anyways.”

“My entire reputation. My shoppe, which I’ve built from the ground up on the bones of my father who is rotting away in prison. No one wants to buy potions from a death eater, Weasley. No one wants to shop somewhere that aurors randomly search. Not to mention my hours are all over the place because the ministry takes my wand without notice or care.

“You promised me freedom and I have come to collect. I will not let you ruin this for me.”

“I understand, Malfoy. And I will do everything in my power to make sure the ministry follows through – no matter the outcome.” Apparently, Ron was making deals with Slytherins left and right. “All Parkinson knows is that it wasn’t you last night. She didn’t learn my true identity and I didn’t tell her where the actual Draco Malfoy was.”

“Pansy is smarter than you think. Don’t underestimate her.”

Ron had spent the entire night with her. He’d learned just how intelligent she was – hiding it under high society bullshit more often than not. “I told her about the case – only the necessities. She wants to help.”

“You’re such an idiot,” Malfoy hung his head. “The sooner we can switch back, the better – for everyone involved.”

Ron would celebrate his glee about Padma later, though he couldn’t help but grin. “Do you have an idea then?”

“No,” he ran a hand down his face. “I really hoped that we would just wake up back to normal.”

Ron considered that had the real Malfoy woken up holding Pansy, he would have been distraught.

“But, nevertheless, we press on,” Malfoy dumped a few ingredients into the cauldron. “Though, I have been thinking about your idea from yesterday.”

“You’ll have to be more specific, Malfoy, I have many brilliant ideas.”

“Right,” he sneered, “A head-to-head collision in which two bodies of comparable mass make contact could cause a transmission of not only energy, but also perhaps a concentration of er… whatever you want to call it.”

Ron blinked at him.

“Souls, or the like.”

“I’m not following.”

“I mean the one where we –” he clapped his hands together.

“Ah, yes,” Ron grinned.

“It’s not the most dignified, but perhaps the simplest answer is the best?”

Ron nodded, “I think we should try it. What could it hurt?”

So consumed with readying themselves for what Malfoy called Mutual Frontal Impact and what Ron called Slam-o-rama they didn’t hear the bell of the shop’s front door.

“When I say go, then?” Malfoy said from the other side of the back room.

“Let’s do it,” Ron nodded.

“Go!”

Ron sprinted head on towards Malfoy, thinking only for a moment that, perhaps, this wasn’t the brightest idea he’d had. When they slammed into one another, Ron knew immediately that nothing had happened except that he’d fallen onto his back and hit his head on the stone floor.

Malfoy groaned from where he lay a few feet away. “That was so stupid.”

“Are you alright? Neville said, rushing from the door to Draco’s side.

Ron stood and schooled his face, channeling Pansy’s lessons and Malfoy’s most despicable sneer. “Longbottom. The back room is for staff only.”

Malfoy looked at him with a hint of surprise. Perhaps, Ron wasn’t so bad at this.

“So- sorry, Malfoy,” Neville stuttered. “I heard some commotion.”

“And I suppose you have experience enough to handle commotion?”

Ron almost took pity on Neville, the man was near tears, “I’m an… auror.”

It was said with as little authority as possible. Ron should probably tell Harry about this embarrassing lack of professionalism from Neville. He cringed internally, thinking his subconscious judgment sounded eerily like Malfoy.

“It’s alright, Neville,” Malfoy said, sounding genuinely friendly. It was odd, seeing Malfoy act like … a decent person. Malfoy took Neville’s proffered hand, helping himself up to standing. “Was there something you needed?”

“Oh,” Neville looked like he wanted to ask more questions, but apparently the attention of the two wizards threw him. “I just came to sell my usual.” He held up a bag of twigs.

Ron took the bag and flung it on the counter. Neville and Malfoy winced at the impact. “How much do I owe you?”

This was apparently the wrong thing to say. Malfoy’s eye twitched and Neville’s mouth dropped open.

“You never pay me for my ingredients.”

Ron swallowed, unsure how to respond.

“You said they’re bad quality and not worth a knut,” Neville wrung his hands. “I’m happy to hear that you have been liking them. The usual rate is 5 galleons.”

Malfoy was seething.

Ron summoned a bag of coins from the register out front, not wanting to go rooting around for Malfoy’s money. “Here,” he passed the entire pouch to Neville, “Includes back pay.”

Neville turned red, sputtering his thanks. “I’ll go now. S-sorry to interrupt.”

The bell on the door sounded as he exited, leaving Ron alone with an entirely pissed off Malfoy.

“You don’t pay people for their wares?”

Malfoy crossed his arms, “I see it as more of a donation. I don’t use his ingredients, they’re shite.”

“Neville is a fantastic herbologist.”

“What the fuck do you know, Weasley?” Malfoy opened the bag of twigs. “These are supposed to be maroon, not brown.” A book floated off the shelf towards Ron, flipping itself to a page of illustrations.

Ron felt sure that maroon and brown were the same color. He couldn’t bring himself to read the densely written paragraphs in the book, brushing it to the side. “What do I care about a bunch of twigs?”

“It’s the molted outer shell of a specific moth larva, not a stick. If not cultivated correctly, it could ruin a potion,” Malfoy threw the bag in the bin. “I don’t pay for shitty ingredients. But thanks for handing away my money to the git.”

Ron bit his cheek. Perhaps, he’d jumped to conclusions. But he felt bad for Neville, he was always bumbling around the other aurors like it was his first day and not his tenth year. It was common knowledge that Neville never meant to be an auror but his grandmother’s dying wish was that he join the DMLE. Ron had always felt better knowing that Neville had his side projects in herbology to make him happy. But apparently, he wasn’t so good at that in practice, either.

“We need to focus on our real problems here,” Malfoy said.

“That your pinky toe curls under your foot in a weird way?”

Malfoy’s jaw clicked, “No.”

“That you have a bald spot on your calf?” Ron wiggled his leg out in front of him.

“Theo did that third year – and, no. Stop talking.”

“Your right ear is definitely bigger than your left.”

Malfoy grimaced like he’d hit a nerve, “Well, your skull has a dent in it.”

Ron rolled his eyes, “That’s not true.”

“According to me it is. I’ll make sure the Daily Prophet knows by sundown. Maybe I’ll even throw in your webbed toes.”

Ron huffed, “Fuck off.”

“Our real problem,” Malfoy said, conjuring a black board from behind one of the shelves, “is that we need a solution to this immediately.”

“Slam-o-rama was a bit of a bust.”

“Mutual Frontal Impact was an incredible failure,” Malfoy enchanted a piece of chalk to begin writing as he spoke. “Yesterday, I came up with a few potential fixes. Reversal through the Original Catalyst, Symbolic Realigning of Selves, and an Astral Re–Binding.”

Ron feigned a snore.

“Reversal through the Original Catalyst seems the most straightforward, however, I can’t figure out where we went wrong in the potion. Well, I know exactly where we went wrong – you messed up the Fluxweed. But that shouldn’t have caused reciprocal vessel exchange, especially because we didn’t strictly consume the potion. Not to mention, the delayed interval between the explosion and the…transference.”

“Okay. I only understood about half of that.”

Malfoy hung his head. “We switched bodies.”

“Obviously.”

“Polyjuice potion, even when fucked up by distracted idiots – I’m referring to you here – does not switch bodies.”

Ron ignored the blame, “So the straightforward reversal through the…”

“Original Catalyst, yes.”

“ —Is not an option.”

“Exactly.” The chalk continued its scratch on the board. “Our next option is a bit less scientific. The Symbolic Realigning of Selves would require us to trust each other implicitly.”

Ron snorted.

“Right,” Malfoy went on, “So, we would do something – a task or action – that only our original selves can do.”

“Like what?” Ron felt it would be too on the nose to scratch his head, but Malfoy’s pretty words were sending him spiraling back to Professor Binns’ course at Hogwarts.

“I’m not sure exactly. For me, it could be a potion or maybe a meal that I’ve come up with.”

“Okay. You make a secret recipe and then we switch back? That sounds simple enough.”

Malfoy shifted on his feet. “I’m not convinced yet, but then again, we did just run across the room at each other, so no idea is too dumb.”

Ron chuckled, “Low bar, I guess. What was the last option?”

“Astral Re-Binding.”

“Ah. Yes.”

“It’s dangerous. Illegal.” Malfoy raised a brow, “It’d be just like your old school days, just need to invite Potter.”

Ron rolled his eyes, “What does it entail?”

“It would untie the knots so to speak. A blood magic ritual connected to an astral event. A comet or eclipse or some such. We would have to find certain rare ingredients that I’ve never even seen in person. It could take months to set up.”

Ron didn’t love the sound of a blood ritual with Draco Malfoy, “Any upcoming astral events I should know of?”

“I’ll need to look,” Malfoy shifted his weight again, looking nervous, “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

Ron gestured for him to go on.

“If we try the ritual and fail, it doesn’t just…not work. It could permanently lock the swap or even merge our memories. It may even result in our deaths.”

“The usual blood ritual nonsense, then?” Ron tried to smile but was sure it came off more like a grimace.

Malfoy nodded, “The usual.”

Ron dropped his weight into a chair, the enormity of their situation finally settling in. Only took two days. It seemed like he was staring down a life as Draco Malfoy or death. “Is there any chance we were cursed by a slighted guardian spirit demanding a quest?”

“Has that happened to you before?”

“No.”

“Did you slight a guardian spirit recently?”

“No,” Ron hoped he would know if he had done such a thing. “Just hoping for a simpler explanation.”

Okay. Okay. Ron hugged his arms to his chest. He could be Draco Malfoy for a little bit longer. It meant he didn’t have to face Padma. It meant he could keep taking fancy showers with four different nozzles and one hundred hair products. He could see Pansy again.

“We will stay at my place and I’ll just –” Malfoy ran a hand through his hair, “I’ll just keep researching.”

“Whoa whoa,” Ron stood, “You can’t stay at your place. I’m staying at your place.”

“There are multiple bedrooms, Weasley,” Malfoy drawled.

“Draco Malfoy would never let Ron Weasley stay at his apartment.”

Malfoy sneered, “Draco Malfoy is currently doing just that, I think.”

Ron shook his head, “People would think we are friends.” The horror. “You’ll have to stay at Grimmauld Place with Harry and Gin. That’s what they’ll expect.”

“What the fuck is Grimmauld Place?” Malfoy looked disgusted.

“It’s Harry’s townhouse. Passed down from the Black family, actually. You’ll feel right at home.”

“I’d feel right at home if I stayed in my own flat, in my own fucking bed.”

Ron cleared his throat, straightening his shoulders, “Think of appearances, Malfoy,” he said with his best smirk.

“You’re getting better.”

Ron smiled, “There’s little improvement from your end. I suppose it’s difficult to turn off being a complete prickhead.”

Malfoy used to be easier to rile up, now he just walked over to the bookshelf, pulling out book after book.

“Here is your share of the research,” Malfoy passed him a stack of books that weighed more than crookshanks. He set a small spiral green notebook on top, “And here’s a book I’ve charmed for us to communicate. It will heat up when I send a message. Mine will do the same if you try to contact me.”

“Nifty.”

“You should leave. I can’t focus with you here,” Malfoy rolled his eyes, “Try not to tell anyone else about your identity and don’t fuck up my apartment.”

“You got it boss.”

Chapter 7: Chapter 7

If Malfoy had learned anything in his semi-self-imposed-partly-ministry-mandated-mostly-society-induced house arrest it was how to make a chicken pot pie.

His secret was not making a real crust. Instead, he would drop spoonfuls of the dough on top to bake. He had thought it haphazard but the glowing reviews from his friends meant it had a permanent spot in their dinner rotation.

“Of all the ways to end things with her, that was what you picked?” Hermione said, eyeing him warily as he moved about the kitchen at Grimmauld Place. Draco was thoroughly depressed by the layer of grime and lack of appropriate baking tools. “Somehow, beyond any capability that I thought possible, you managed to muck things up for half a dozen people.”

Draco scoured the cabinets for a baking dish, opening and closing the doors while he spoke, “Frankly, I’m surprised more people weren’t impacted. Pads has quite the temper.”

He’d taken to calling not-Parvati ‘pads’ somewhere in their hour-long fight this morning. Draco hadn’t been entirely honest with Weasley about the break-up. It had happened and there had been screaming and crying – a lot of crying.

What was inexplicable and something he couldn’t/wouldn’t share with Weasley, was Draco’s reaction. He had gotten so caught up in Ron’s life for a moment that he’d honestly forgotten that he, Draco, had nothing at stake. It was the most bizarre thing, defending Weasley, and actually believing it. Forgetting that he had all sorts of issues that began and ended for the most part with being stuck in Ron Weasley’s body and focusing fully on Padma Patil and her tearful arguments.

It was true – the devil cat had attacked Draco, and Granger had tried to help him survive the ghastly beast. Padma found them standing A. very close together with B. very little clothes and C. mussed bed raggled hair and D. heaving chests. It didn’t look good. But Draco strongly believed that a mature adult relationship could withstand a little misunderstanding. It wasn’t his fault that Weasley was not a part of that kind of relationship.

The way that he had explained it to Weasley had made it sound as though Padma was driving the breaking-up-with that occurred. Really, and again, inexplicably, Draco was overcome and stepped into the role of disconnected boyfriend. He had not been dating Padma for more than 48 hours at this point, but he felt the nerve to speak up and truly tell her the errors of their relationship.

Her: I knew you were fucking her. You always deny it, but it’s clear as day.

Draco wasn’t sure about this (see: 48 hours in relationship) but he did not like the insinuation/outright accusation.

Him: We are not sleeping together – Hermione has just saved me from a certain death and we should all be thanking her.

Padma clearly did not like this and went very red.

Her: I will not thank her for seducing my boyfriend. In fact, I think you should leave Hermione. Permanently.

This was about the time Draco thrived in his embodiment of Ron Weasley. There was no other justification for his sudden onset of strident support for Hermione Granger.

Him: Now Padma – You can’t honestly be kicking Hermione out of her own home because of a miscommunication. She hasn’t done anything wrong and certainly hasn’t been seducing your boyfriend. If you kick her out, you might as well send me packing with her.

Her: Ahha! I knew you were guilty. She is such a slut and you two deserve each other.

(This was a bit of a paraphrase, but at some point her hostility became a bit boring and he tuned out some of her droning).

Him: I don’t feel as if I am growing in this relationship – neither of us is. We may not be good for each other right now. The jealousy, the fights… it doesn’t feel like ‘us’ is really working. We ought to end things before either of us gets hurt.

At this point, Padma and Granger were staring at him like he’d gone mad. Perhaps he had shared a touch more emotional maturity than Weasley would have.

Him, still: Hermione is not a slut and my defending her is not an admission of guilt but only a need for the truth. She is a lovely person and you would do well to emulate her.

It was the wrong thing to say on many levels. Draco was told (by Pansy) that his prowess was secluded to the bedroom rather than emotional conversations. He knew this particular conversation was not in his wheelhouse. He also knew he was doing better than Weasley would be doing.

Her: You want me to emulate her? Is that some sort of kink, you sick fuck?

If Draco was smart he would have left then. However, it seemed Granger couldn’t stand to see Ron berated and Draco (again, inexplicable, given their histories) didn’t like the things Padma was saying about Granger. Thus began the round table of quarreling and biting sarcasm. All in all, Padma began shouting and crying and breathing too heavily to be healthy. Draco had offered to take her to a healer when her lips had turned blue. That had caused another squawk of outrage that still had his ears bleeding. Granger being a healer, something he hadn’t known until Padma started crying about it, was not a helpful career choice in this situation. Draco wished he could have fallen back in time and told her to become something that would have been helpful, like a crone or a circus freak. Although, Padma might still have found something to be jealous of in these professions, as well.

The morning ended with all three of them in tears. Padma in righteous, if unjustified anger. Granger from the vitriolic lies spewed in her general direction. And Draco because he’d stubbed his toe on the way to following Granger from the room when she’d finally had enough.

Her (Hermione, this time): You shouldn’t be consoling me, you should be consoling your girlfriend.

Him: She’s almost definitely not my girlfriend any more. I’m more concerned about my friendship with you – something I’d really like to not bollocks up on this particular morning.

For no other reason than Weasley would find a way to return the favor. He could mess with Pansy, or shave Draco’s head, or get a tattoo of a hot sauce packet on Draco’s thigh that said ‘born to be mild.’

It also didn’t settle well with him to see her like this – it wasn’t directly because of him per se, but he liked to think his days of making Hermione Granger cry were well behind him. Much like his days of blindly following fascist dictator wanna-bes and attempting murder. If she sat here crying because of him, he worried about the implication of the other items on his ‘do not do’ list.

Her: You know it would take a lot more to get rid of me?

Him: I don’t think I deserve you.

The statement was true for Ron, he was certain, but it was entirely true for Draco, who was realizing many things about Granger, Weasley, Padma, and himself all at once.

It was these thoughts that had Draco hurrying to The Shoppe to set everything back to normal. He much preferred brooding in his flat with his sultry friends over the warmth of ale at the Leaky Cauldron watching Granger give a lecture. He was almost sure of it.

Weasley hadn’t been helpful, so now Draco had to make a double batch of chicken pot pie. One for the residents of Grimmauld Place and one to send off to his flat lest Weasley try to feed Draco’s neanderthal friends more ethnic meat. The problem was that Grimmauld had an appalling kitchen and the crankiest elf he’d ever seen. Granger was apparently dead set on giving Weasley a lecture, which meant Draco was receiving an earful in his stead.

“Padma’s emotional maturity leaves something to be desired,” she said, still tracking his every move as he prepared supper.

“Understatement,” Draco said under his breath. He stirred the peas, “Hang on. You said six people were impacted. Mind me asking what your maths are on that one?”

“Well, you and Padma – That’s a given. Neither of you could’ve gotten out of this unscathed. Myself – for all the screaming that was done in my direction despite my blamelessness and for being kicked out of my home. Need I remind you that all of our worldly possessions are in the hands of your ex? Not to mention Crookshanks who is unsettled by raised voices in his old age and hates Grimmauld,” she shot an accusatory look at Kreacher, “and finally Harry and Ginny now have to house their adult aged friends for an indeterminate amount of time.”

Draco nodded along, throwing the pies into the oven and flipping a dish rag over his shoulder.

Hermione continued, sighing a little, “You said you would come at this with some modicum of tact.”

Knowing what he knew, Draco thought this was a somewhat unfair expectation of Ron Weasley, but as he was currently wearing the bloke’s skin, he supposed he ought to be on Ron’s side of things. “To be fair, I spoke only the truth. I was honest and, frankly, kind. It was a ridiculous situation that she stumbled upon and her reaction was a reflection of the ongoing arguments Padma and I have shared for the last few months.”

Granger blinked at him.

“Now, I am sorry that I’ve caused such upheaval in the lives of half a dozen people, which I say loosely since your cat —”

“Kneazle.”

“ —Is not strictly in the same category as myself. He is not a human person. He isn’t even a bi-ped. I’m a little worried that in his old age that he’s nothing more than a tuft of hair and a rampant desire for murder.”

Hermione gave an exasperated exhale, “He wasn’t trying to murder you.”

“He very nearly succeeded.”

Draco sat at the table with her while she expanded on the reasons why Crookshanks shouldn’t be tried by the full Wizengamot for his crimes. He, begrudgingly, found that he was enjoying himself – if he could ignore the murmuring elf, the musty air, and the sticky table. If he were to be living here, something would have to give.

When the timer went off, a terrible shrieking started from the hallway – something about FILTHY MUDBLOODS – that Granger quickly ran off to take care of. Draco ignored the commotion (pot pie couldn’t wait) and sent one pie over to the table followed by dishes and cutlery (all mismatched, to his dismay). He conjured a box and sent the other pie via owl to Weasley across town. He hoped the useless bloke at least knew how to cast a heating charm.

When Potter, Weaselette, and Granger finally sat for supper, they looked suspiciously at their plated dishes.

“Where is this from?” Ginny asked, poking at the peas.

“I made it.”

“From what?” Potter said, looking all the more like someone was asking him to eat gillyweed rather than a homemade pie.

Draco struggled not to be offended, knowing the judgment was entirely against Ron and had nothing to do with himself. Nevermind the fact that if Draco had sat chicken pot pie in front of the current company as himself, they would be even more distrustful.

“Chicken, onion, carrots, peas – the usual. Give it a go, you might like it.”

Hermione was the first to summon her courage, taking a small bite and immediately moaning. Draco ignored the way his stomach flipped. It was always nice when someone liked what one cooked. Hermione’s reaction spurred the others to try their own plates and soon everyone was eating their pies with fervor.

“Sorry mate but I thought this was going to be dead awful,” Potter said around a mouthful, “Like I really thought it would kill me.”

Ginny nodded in agreement, “This isn’t mum’s recipe. How did you even learn to make this?”

Draco had expected that Weasley couldn’t cook, but the reactions from his friends made it seem like Weasley’s skills in the kitchen went beyond ‘couldn’t’ stretching closer to ‘shouldn’t.’ Weasley’s friends seemed very contented by the meal and Draco wondered who usually did the cooking. Or if they usually ordered out. He wondered if Granger or Pads made most of Ron’s meals. He found himself suddenly infinitely curious about Granger’s daily life.

He swallowed his bite, ignoring the random train of thought.

Apparently, Sunday evenings the group watched a movie (even when they were not living together because of regrettable personal circumstances). One of the large studies in the townhouse was permanently set up with couches and an overflow of blankets and pillows. There was a large thick screen at the front of the room where Potter began stepping over long cords and plugging things in. Draco hadn’t seen any muggle movies before. He had considered it, but never knew where to start. The technology did not seem straightforward or user friendly. The one time he’d stepped foot in an electronics store (shudder) he had gotten so overwhelmed, he’d left and didn’t go back into muggle London for a month. He also literally had no idea where to start. What was the first movie ever made and did he need to see that in order to understand the rest of them?

Longbottom showed up at a quarter to eight, sweaty and disheveled. He gave his apologies – citing some nonsense about floo difficulties. The others seemed to think this was relatively normal. Draco thought they all gave him a pass because Longbottom had killed a snake a few years ago. Big deal.

Potter and the Weaslette settled on one couch, his arm slung around her and tangling in her long red hair. Gross. Longbottom stretched out over some blankets on the floor within arms reach of the low table that had a host of snacks that could be found on the trolley on the Hogwarts Express. Draco sat on a different couch, hoping to sink away from the group and hide any adverse reactions he’d have to the movie, but Granger flopped next to him. And, much to Draco’s bewilderment, she put her socked feet in his lap, rubbing her toes together in his face.

“You’ll like this one, Ron,” Granger said. “It’s funny.”

The movie began and Draco struggled not to stare bug-eyed at the big screen. The story followed a teenage boy and his friend – an older gentleman they called ‘Doc.’ The Doc sent the teenage boy back in time to when the boy’s parents were in high school. Draco was excited to hear that time travel had reached the muggles, but Granger assured him it was just ‘science fiction’ all while digging her toes under his thigh.

There was a beastly story line where the teenage boy’s mother fell in love with him, which Draco found uncomfortable and made him wonder about familial boundaries in the muggle world. Granger laughed often throughout the movie. He tried to watch her from the corner of his eye whenever the movie lulled. It was nearly as interesting to see her relaxed and happy – not the tightly wound swot from school – as it was to watch the film. Her toes dug into his thighs whenever she got too invested in the movie. He found it insufferable. When it became too much, he pulled her feet on top of his legs and pressed his thumbs into their arches.

She hardly seemed to notice his rebuke, settling deeper into the couch while he kneaded her feet. Ridiculous. What entitlement from these Gryffindors.

When the movie ended, Draco was excited for part two and thought he could hardly stand to wait until next Sunday. He shook himself, realizing that he would hopefully be safely back in his own body by then and would be happily far away from Granger and the rest of them. For now, he was led to a dingy room upstairs that had a small bed and sheets that looked a few decades past due for a clean. He held back a snarl, changing into Weasley’s pyjamas and climbing onto the dust covered mattress.

The call came late at night, or early in the morning, if one wanted to be pedantic. Draco had been mid-slumber and doing his best to ignore the cotton sheets and lumpy bed. It was downright common.

A silver stag jolted him awake. Potter’s voice echoed into the room calling out an address. He sat in stunned silence as the silver dissipated into the air. He was sure drool was drying on his chin. It was possibly minutes later that he realized he was being summoned by Potter to a crime scene in York.

“Splendid,” Draco groaned, hoisting himself from the bed and into Ron’s auror robes. He swallowed his mounting anxiety. If Weasley could do it, so could he.

Except it was clear to Draco now that Weasley had grown significantly in the last decade. It wasn’t just Quidditch practice that had Weasley’s arm muscles stretching out the robes. He was the lead on dozens of high profile crimes. Weasley’s magic – particularly his dueling – was surely well practiced, efficient, and lethal. Draco had gone the opposite direction. His time spent wandless and cooped up in The Shoppe left his dueling with something to be desired.

Nonetheless, he apparated to the provided address, wand at the ready.

Despite his meticulously ironed robes, Draco was greatly underprepared for the scene he had stepped into. Spells blasted across the street – window glass littered the stones. Draco took cover behind a lamp post, unsure where exactly he was supposed to go. Surely there was some sort of protocol for this situation? On one side of the street, dipping in and out of the store front – Potter cast spell after spell. Gone, apparently, were the days of trying to disarm his enemies. The spells were advanced, some were even deadly. One or two other aurors ducked in and out of view on Potter’s sides. Across the street, four figures moved through the shadows. Their jerky movements sent a chill down Draco’s spine. He hated vampyres. If the light hit just right, he could see the blood red of their eyes.

“Ron!” Potter shouted behind an overturned table, “Quickly!”

Draco cursed under his breath and sprinted into the dilapidated pub. The floors were sticky with blood or mead. His knuckles were white around Ron’s wand, sick with the idea of trusting Potter with his life.

“What’s the situation?” Draco said, breathlessly.

“Johnson caught a vampyre in the act,” Potter paused to fire half a dozen spells at the offenders in question. “We got a tip that they’d strike tonight. Four of them now, although I downed a fifth just before you arrived.”

Draco nodded dumbly. Four vampyres, presumably from the deadliest clan in the United Kingdom. He thought back to his O.W.L.s for spells that worked best against their extra strength and blood lust.

“You know the drill,” Potter said, shaking shattered glass from his hair. Had Potter jumped through the window to get here? Draco felt a reluctant sort of respect for the aurors.

“Assume I don’t remember the drill.”

He shot his own spell across the street, hoping Potter didn’t catch that it was a tongue-tying spell and had about a quarter of the strength necessary to impact a vampyre.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just a little out of it after last night.” Draco was struggling to breathe through the cloud of spells and smoking debris. “Just tell me what to do.”

Potter furrowed his brow at him, obviously curious how an evening watching a muggle film led Weasley to forget years of training. If Draco wasn’t careful, he’d get Ron fired from his hard-won career.

He beckoned to the other aurors, “We’ll go with formation A4 – stick with offensive spells, these ones are nasty. Johnson, Weasley, you take the left flank. Longbottom and I will go right.”

Potter must have seen the disbelief on his face, “Jesus, Ron. What’s wrong with you? Just follow Johnson and don’t get too close to the creatures that might eat you.”

Draco didn’t need to be told twice. He crouched low, following Angelina out of the pub and towards the vampyres. He pictured Weasley safe and sound in Draco’s own bed – the one with silk sheets and the best mattress money could buy. That fucker.

One of the vampyres jumped from the rubble, its eyes wide with hunger. Johnson sent a curse at its chest that turned the creature to stone. Draco breathed around the adrenaline.

“Incarcerous,” he said, binding the vampyre in rope. There wasn’t much that could keep a vampyre dead. But at least this would keep it out of their hair while they worked on the others. Johnson nodded at him in thanks, moving deeper into the street.

Draco heard Potter shouting and a small explosion sent a shower of rocks – and possibly vampyre bits – raining over them. When the dust cleared, Potter was wiping sweat from his temple, looking all the more like the chosen one. Some things never do change.

It looked like there was only one left which was obviously outnumbered by their spellwork. Draco felt a swell of pride. He hadn’t done much, but it was nice to be a part of a team. To be on the good side, for once.

He ducked under a series of spells sent in their direction. Johnson wasn’t as lucky, crying out from what looked like a flesh-eating jinx. He sent a counter-course towards her leg on instinct.

“Bloody hell, thanks,” she said, breathlessly.

Draco swallowed, a little impressed with himself.

Johnson’s eyes widened, “Look out!” she shouted, pointing behind him.

He didn’t have a chance to brace himself before he was attacked by the vampyre. His head hit the pavement painfully, sending shocks of heat down his back. They tousled on the stone, glass cutting into his skin. Spells started flying and he heard Potter shout at Longbottom. The vampyre was even more disgusting up close. Its skin was sickly pale and its fangs were dribbling saliva into Draco’s face. It was practically rabid.

The creature’s intensity and great need to bite Draco’s neck had them both caught unaware when the ground exploded out from under them. Draco felt himself falling. Worse, was when he felt himself landing.

Draco’s vision went white. Then there was nothing.

He woke up for a moment to flashing lights and loud voices. Granger was hovering over him – a worried look on her face. She had blood on her face, her chest.

“You’re hurt,” he groaned. He couldn’t tell why, but he was very upset by the idea of her being hurt.

“Don’t try and move, Ron,” She brushed his hand out of the way, apparently he’d lifted it up to wipe the blood off her face.

Draco was confused. Why had she called him Ron? She looked overly concerned for him, even went as far as smoothing hair across his forehead in a tender gesture that was well out of line with what he expected from her. Draco didn’t know much in his current state (even what his current state entailed) but he did know Hermione Granger didn’t look at him like that.

He tried to sit up, something was wrong. She lay a warm hand on his shoulder, pushing him to stay flat.

“Don’t move.” She repeated, sternly. “Graciela, I need 3 ounces of Dittany, a vial of –” Draco couldn’t make sense of her words. Healers were rushing around him, all of them bleeding.

“Someone should take a look at them. They’re all injured.”

Granger looked at him patiently, though there was a tightness around her eyes that gave her an edge, “You’ve been in an explosion. You’ve lost a lot of blood and have a number of broken bones. I know this may be overwhelming, but we are going to fix you up, good as new.”

Granger was casting spells over him. He felt comforted by her presence even though everyone was bleeding out around him. The furrow of her brow and her intense gaze settled him in a way he didn’t know he needed. He found he quite liked her like this. Not just doting over him – although that was nice, but the focus and razor sharp precision of her healing. Her hair was pulled back away from her face in a long plait. She was wearing the garish purple healing robes from St. Mungo’s. They had a high neck and what Draco could only assume were one million buttons going down the side. All covered in blood.

“You’re bleeding,” He said, though he knew it was quiet enough to get lost in the hustle going on around him.

She tipped a vial into his mouth. “Ron, we are about to put you under. Just hold tight.”

“Draco,” He corrected her.

She flicked her eyes to his, “Malfoy?”

He smiled, or he tried to, he couldn’t feel his face. “Yes.”

“I suppose Harry can call him. Graciela –”

Draco frowned. Call who?

He felt the pull of whatever drought they’d dosed him with. “I’m Draco Malfoy,” he insisted. He wasn’t sure if it was understandable given the slurring. He didn’t have time to analyze her face when he fell into deep nothingness.

Draco felt lost. It was the same sinking feeling he got when he was a child and he couldn’t find his mother at the store. Except this time, he was floating, no purchase on reality. He heard Granger and he tried to move towards her voice. She was yelling more orders at someone.

And then Draco was standing in a room watching his classmates hex each other. Bookcases lined the walls – from a glance, he could tell they all covered topics of dark magic. A foe glass sat in the corner and cushions littered the floor.

“He’s doing brilliantly, yeah?” Granger was at his side looking on at Potter as he adjusted Longbottom’s wand to point at his aggressor.

Is this what they all used to look like? So young.

Ron’s voice spilled from him of its own accord, “None of this would be here without you, Hermione.”

She blushed prettily and Draco felt his stomach swoop as the scene drifted away. He sat in a meadow, now. He felt sullen and upset.

“You’ll be on your way to Hogwarts soon, my dear. For now, you’re staying home with me where I can keep you close,” Ron’s mother pulled Draco close to her chest, soothing his choked cry and patting his hair.

He was in a tent now. Potter and Granger sat huddled together on a couch. They were whispering lowly enough that Draco couldn’t hear. A sickly feeling like envy settled over his shoulders. They looked gaunt. Like they hadn’t eaten in weeks.

The hungry teenagers were swept to the side and Draco could feel himself beaming at his family as they sat in the audience. He was next to Potter on a stage, the minister of magic gesturing at the podium.

“I hate the fanfare,” Potter said out of the corner of his mouth, “But sometimes, I’ll admit it feels good to be good.”

The scene dissolved and Granger appeared again. She was older and apparently… in great ecstasy. Her head fell back, hair cascading down her shoulders and sticking to the sweat on her neck. She was grinding down on him, seeking her own pleasure. She opened her eyes and gasped, sending Draco back into a listless plain of nothingness.

Notes:

The slow burn is slowly burning. Thanks for your patience as we follow our idiots on their trudge towards true love.

Chapter 8: Chapter 8

Ron knew there was something mental about seeing himself laying in a hospital bed half dead. Hermione was fluttering around Malfoy doing everything in her power to make him comfortable and shooting irritated glares at himself and Harry whenever she got the chance.

Fed up with the passive aggressive looks, Harry finally broke the awkward silence, “I told you, Hermione, he was out of sorts when he arrived on scene. He didn’t even know what the A4 formation was.”

Ron grimaced, Malfoy was making him look bad – even drunk Ron would be able to recognize A4. They learned it in the first bloody month of training.

“Even on his best day, Ron couldn’t have avoided that explosion. Dumbledore couldn’t have avoided it,” Hermione huffed.

“Neville was a bit stressed.”

“You should get your aurors in line, Potter,” Ron drawled, checking his cuticles. Christ, he was becoming such a prick. He had overheard pieces of the events from the other night when he recklessly shoved his way through the hospital floor to get to Malfoy – and more importantly, his own body. The vampyres had trapped the aurors. Draco had shown up late and much to Ron’s dismay, acted very much like he’d never been in a duel before. Unfortunately, Neville had shown up in a similar state – inexcusable for the amount of years the bloke had in training. Neville, in his haste to ‘save Ron’ sent a nasty bombarda directly at him – collapsing the street and taking Draco with it.

Ron’s ire as Malfoy was barely an act. Harry knew as well as anyone that Neville needed to go before he got someone killed.

“Shove off, Malfoy,” Harry spat. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“I was called.”

Hermione cleared her throat, fluffing Malfoy’s pillows again, “Ron was asking for him before he went under. I figured it had something to do with the case, but if you’re just going to be sullen and annoying, you should go.”

Malfoy murmured, shifting on the papery hospital sheets. Hermione leaned closer brushing his red hair off his forehead. It was nice to see Hermione doting on him, but he had to clench his fists in his pockets to stop himself from telling her it was actually Draco Malfoy underneath the handsome ginger exterior.

“Don’t try to move,” She whispered to Malfoy.

Malfoy blinked his eyes at her, offering a small smile before he grimaced in pain. Ron felt a bit guilty knowing Malfoy had taken a curse meant for him, but frankly, the sod deserved it for well…years of being a general git (and a few months of being a criminal one).

“You saved me,” Malfoy said, lifting a bandaged wrapped hand to Hermione’s face. He looked a bit love sick with a goofy half smile and saucer-like eyes.

“We’ve already had this conversation,” Hermione sighed, “And I was just doing my job.”

“What day is it?”

“Wednesday,” Harry piped up, wringing his hands in telltale stress.

Malfoy ignored him, staring still at Hermione, “You’re amazing at your job.”

Ron felt suddenly like he was intruding, which was ridiculous because it was his goddamn body lying on the hospital bed. He looked sideways at Harry who was rocking back on his heels and looking warily at the couple on the bed.

“You’re completely blitzed, Ron,” Hermione grinned.

Malfoy furrowed a brow, “Why’d you call me that?”

Ron clapped his hands together, “Potter, Granger, do you mind if I have a minute alone with the invalid? I’d like to discuss details about the case.”

“He’s in no state —”

“Whatever Ron knows, I can help with —”

“ — Potentially hallucinating —”

“ —As the lead auror on the case —”

Ron pushed them from the room, their protests drowned out by the slamming of the door.

He rounded on Malfoy, “What the fuck are you playing at?”

Malfoy just blinked blearily.

“You’re flirting with Hermione in my bloody body.”

He lit up with a grin, “She’s brilliant.”

Ron felt his eye twitch, “You cannot be serious.”

“She saved my life.”

“No, she saved my life,” Ron corrected, “She’d probably leave you to bleed out if the situation was reversed.”

He looked pensive, “Do you really think she hates me that much?”

Christ, it was like talking to a child. “We have more important things to discuss – like how you were almost slaughtered by a vampyre last night and then exploded to bits by friendly fire.”

“I would like to talk about Granger.”

High as a kite.

Ron sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I’m going to tell Harry that I’m going to stake out The Kiss.”

“Will you put in a good word for me with Granger?”

Ron stared at him, “As you? Or, wait, what would I say? You know what, nevermind. Did you hear me? I’m going to stake out The Kiss.”

“Yes, that is fine,” he waved Ron off. His voice got more posh when he was out to pasture apparently. “Have you and Granger slept together?”

Ron leaned against the cold metal of Malfoy’s hospital bed. “Er.. no”

Malfoy looked puzzled, “You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Interesting.” Malfoy zoned off into space, itching at this bandage.

Merlin, this man was infuriating. Malfoy was all hands on deck about the case and switching back to their original bodies and now suddenly all he could think about was Hermione.

Ron snapped his fingers in front of Malfoy’s face, “Hermione is not interested in you.”

Malfoy nodded, “I had some dreams these last few days. More like visions, actually.”

Ron hung his head. This was not a good sign.

“I thought they were memories, but maybe not.”

Ron looked up at that, “Memories?”

Malfoy’s vacant face was leaning towards somber, “Yours. Memory merging, I think.”

Ron’s heart hammered, that was definitely not a good sign. “Well, which memories? Maybe they were just drug induced hallucinations.”

Ron wished this whole thing was a drug induced hallucination.

“It started with your little defense group from fifth year,” Malfoy licked his lips, “Then, I was in a field with your mother, I was young and crying. She was comforting me. Next, I was in a tent with Granger and Potter. I was… jealous, angry. Just as suddenly, I was standing at a podium being commended by the minister. And then, well, I was having sex with Granger.”

“Bloody hell.”

“My sentiments exactly. So, memories or dreams?”

“Memories,” Ron confirmed, “Except for the last one. We’ve never done that.”

Malfoy hummed.

“Look, as glad as I am that you are having sex dreams about my best mate, these memories are pretty concerning, right?”

“I’m going to win her over,” Malfoy nodded to himself.

“Sorry?”

“The more our memories merge, the closer we may get to essence drift. We wouldn’t be able to tell whose memories are whose or even who we truly are,” Malfoy stared off into space again, “Just need to woo her.”

It wasn’t often that the lesser of two evils was Malfoy flirting with Hermione, but in this case, it was definitely the easier pill to swallow when compared to essence drift. “How will you woo her? She hates your guts.”

“No, she hates your guts. I’ll pursue her as you and then come clean when we switch back – it’s the best way to get close to her.”

Ron gawped, “That’s a totally shit plan.”

“Do you have a better one?”

“Yeah – don’t do it.”

Malfoy smirked, “While I’m stuck in this ridiculous meat suit, I’m going to make the best of it.”

“And that means flirting with Hermione?” Ron felt a headache coming on.

“She’s the best. Malfoys always get the best,” His smirk grew, “I think I love her.”

Ron’s laugh (ie. the deep chuckle that he’d only ever heard from Malfoy when the git was mocking a first year about their unfortunately fitting pants or something) echoed around the hospital room.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Malfoy, you’ve spent 48 hours with her in the last decade.”

“And in 48 hours, I’ve realized that she is greatly underappreciated by her friends and society at large. She’s funny and quippy and horribly swotty. You know, we got into it the other night about carbuncles. I swear I got a hard on.”

Ron’s hands went to his ears immediately, “La la la”

Malfoy kept talking and Ron did his best not to listen. There was something about her ‘luscious curls’ and ‘giant brain.’ Ron felt ill, shaking his head.

“What? You think I can’t love a smart, kind, beautiful witch?”

Ron raised his eyebrows at the obviously ludicrous situation unfolding before him. “Hermione Granger is all of those things – she is also a muggleborn, something, I might remind you, you are morally against. Not to mention you bullied her for most of her childhood, watched your aunt torture her, and generally stood for everything she and those she loved fought against with their lives.”

“Oh posh, I stopped believing that slop ages ago,” Malfoy sounded more like a 19th century gentleman with every drug-addled word.

“Nevertheless, you can’t win Hermione over in my body,” Ron protested. He knew it sounded petulant. But it was also perfectly reasonable not to want Malfoy to court another woman in his body. “What’s your plan? Flirt, and then if –”

“ – When,” Malfoy interrupted.

“If she falls for you, you’ll say ‘sorry, Love, it’s actually me, Draco Malfoy, your childhood bully.’”

“That about sums it up.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I want her.”

“You are so spoiled – you’ll use another man’s body to get what you want.”

“I’m Draco Malfoy.”

“Well you look like Ron Bloody Weasley. And let me tell you, with Mione, that might not be doing you any favors.”

“I love her.”

“You don’t know her!” Ron yelled, taking a deep breath through his nose, “Is this the essence drift you mentioned? Maybe you’re just feeling my old emotions.”

“Were your emotions ‘dear Merlin, I must marry this witch and never let her leave my bed’?”

Ron groaned, “Christ, Malfoy, no.” He paced to the door, white knuckling the handle. “I have lunch with your mother right now, I can’t deal with this. Sober up and then we will talk about this massive shift in your personality that has somehow driven you into complete madness.”

Ron pulled open the door, straightening to find Hermione and Harry on the opposite wall with their arms crossed. He turned back to Malfoy who waggled his fingers and said “Later, Malfoy,” with a cheeky grin that Ron could’ve slapped off.

—

Tea with Narcissa Malfoy was about as bloodchilling as Ron had imagined. He was staring down a friendly gathering with serial killing vampyres and he was more nervous to be sitting in the lounge with mummy.

“You haven’t touched your scone, dear.”

Ron was feeling unusually unappetized. The prim witch across from him was watching his every move. One slump of his shoulders would have her questioning everything. She had a practiced distant calm that made him want to run.

“Yes, Mother.”

With Malfoy in hospital for two days, Ron had been feeding the Slytherins various take away dinners that received negative reactions all around. It also meant that he relied on Pansy to school him on every action and reaction in preparation for this meeting with Narcissa. He couldn’t cancel it without looking suspicious, he couldn’t go without potentially giving up the whole game. During Pansy’s manic lessons on pureblood decorum she said when in doubt, a clipped ‘yes, mother’ was all that Narcissa expected.

“Did you see the aurors think they have a serial killer on their hands?” She gestured to a folded newspaper at her side. “Another excuse to capture an innocent, I’m sure.”

Ron swallowed his initial reactionary huff. Pansy had prepared him for this too – Narcissa hated aurors. She hated the ministry and she insisted that the many dark wizards who had been arrested ten years ago were entirely innocent of any wrongdoings. Ron wanted to curl his lips back in a sneer. In fact, he did just that, letting her see what she wanted in his hatred.

“I’m sure,” He replied, noncommittedly.

She took a delicate sip of tea and looked about the grand Malfoy sitting room. The high-ceiling seemed more ceremonial than welcoming. It looked out over the well-trimmed gardens the Malfoys were known for. The room was laid out with deep blues and creams – anything that could be marble, was – providing an echoing atmosphere that couldn’t have been more different from the stuffed comfort of the Burrow. “How are Vincent and the others?”

Begging Ron for homemade dinners. “The boys are well. Blaise’s vineyard continues to thrive. Theodore is moments away from hexing a Wizengamot member’s idiot son, and Vincent continues his work with me at the Shoppe.”

Pansy had fed him these mundane facts about the others. Keep the conversation light, surface level. Look her in the eyes, but not for too long. Don’t smile. Don’t hug. Don’t be warm. When she was teaching Ron the ways of wealthy pureblood fuckery, Pansy wasn’t condescending or cross if he didn’t catch on (sorry, Hermione). She was oddly patient, frank, and didn’t turn her nose up at his questions. He liked watching her pace in her short navy dress, the small matching capelet fluttering with each click of her heels. More than once, she caught him staring at her legs and gave him a thwack on the back of his head.

There was also something that he picked up on during their lessons – she never once made him feel less than for growing up in relative poverty. Ron had come to expect it from the wealthier purebloods who he went to school with. Hand-me-down clothes that were too long or too short, patches in his robes, books without their spines – it was all fair play for the people (read: Slytherins (read: Draco Malfoy)) who targeted him and his siblings.

He’d even clarified it for her. She still didn’t know he was a Weasley, even though he’d said as much on Saturday. But she did know he grew up on the poorer side in a wizarding family. When Pansy asked if he had experience with formal tea he’d replied with a grunt and said, “We didn’t even have a formal living room let alone scheduled time for tea. My home was always a madhouse.”

Pansy had looked thoughtfully at him, “My manor was always so cold and quiet. Anyways, afternoon tea with Narcissa is far from whatever anyone else has grown up knowing. Even I was caught off guard by how formal and restrained everything was during my first visit.”

“Sounds like a lovely family.”

“Narcissa and Lucius love their son. They would do anything for him – yes,” She had cut him off before he could interrupt, “that includes both joining the Dark Lord’s cause and pushing Draco to get the mark at an extremely young age. They were misguided in their love, but it was love nonetheless.”

Ron had scoffed. Misguided was one word for it.

She paused and stared at him with such an intense gaze he thought for a moment she could see his true identity, “Does your family love you?”

“Without a doubt.”

“How do they show it?”

It was Ron’s turn to pause. No one had asked him that before. Perhaps it was always a given – to know the Weasleys was to know their love. It was hard to articulate. “My mum insists on making my bed for me whenever I visit home. She turns down one corner of the quilt. She always did that growing up too. I don’t know… it sounds stupid, I guess, but —”

“Narcissa Malfoy doesn’t even know the color of Draco’s bedsheets. She probably hasn’t set a toe in his bedroom since infancy. Beyond showing the nannies where to take him when he cried, she was very removed from his upbringing. Narcissa shows her love through money, reputation, and above all else - status.”

Ron had swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth, Malfoy’s abstracted home life becoming more clear and less palatable with each revelation from Pansy.

He cleared his throat, “And you? How does your family show they love you?”

“They don’t.”

Ron had wanted to push further – had wanted to know more. He had also wanted to wrap her in his arms and maybe hold her head against his chest. He wanted to run a hand through her silky hair until her breath evened out into sleep. Ron knew it was an odd inclination. After all, he barely knew the woman. And what he did know of her was far away from what he was usually drawn towards.

Not that he was (or could or should be) drawn towards Pansy Parkinson. Or her legs. Or her dark eyes. Pansy had moved on quickly from her troubling statement about her family and went in depth about etiquette at the tea table, pulling Ron away from his thoughts.

Her lessons made Ron feel tense trying to keep it all straight. In the end, Malfoy was a man of few words, a quality that would work in his favor today.

“How is The Shoppe?” Narcissa said across from him, drawing his attention away from his lessons with Pansy.

Being run by an auror who could’ve failed out of potions, “Vincent has helped a great deal. Business is good.”

Narcissa pursed her lips. Pansy had told him that The Shoppe was a sore spot for Narcissa — something about squandering generations of feudal nonsense. In fact, Ron thought The Shoppe was the only respectable thing about Malfoy.

“You should sell to Borgin.”

Ron arched a brow, “Borgin is in Azkaban, he doesn’t need potions.”

“I meant the store itself.”

“Ah. That would be quite the business deal. Seeing as, again, he’s in prison.” His sarcasm might’ve toed the line, but he couldn’t help himself.

“When will you give up this ridiculous —” She fluttered pale manicured fingers in the air, apparently too overcome by her son’s stupidity to finish her sentence. If Ron cared at all about Malfoy, he may have been affronted.

“I’ve told you Mother, this shop is my way of separating myself from my past. It represents independence and rehabilitation.” Pansy had told him this too. It sounded fake, but apparently, it was all Malfoy had talked about for years after his mastery in potions.

“It’s incredibly selfish.” She sniffed, “Think about my reputation.”

Ron gathered himself with a sip of his tea. Was this really the woman that changed the tides of the war? Harry had testified on her behalf after the war. She seemed so…prissy.

Narcissa continued, reading nothing into his silence, “It’s selfish to squander centuries of hard work from your ancestors.”

Ron steepled his own pale fingers, biting his lip to hold back the slew of comebacks about the evil ghosts of Malfoys past.

“Usually, you have a thing or two to say about that.” A corner of her painted lips tilted up like passive aggressive verbal sparring about her son’s faults brought her joy.

“Yes, Mother.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and Ron swore the room’s temperature lowered a few degrees.

“It’s time.”

He waited patiently – channeling his inner Blaise Zabini and making sure his face was set in cold nonchalance.

She went on, “It’s time to fulfill your duty. You’re almost thirty. It’s time you marry.”

Ron almost let his mask drop. This witch was batty. A silence settled, heavy but controlled, broken only by the faint clink of porcelain as she lifted her cup. When Ron reached for a biscuit, she paused, just long enough to make him wonder if it was allowed, then said nothing. He ate the biscuit slowly, chewing over his response.

“Who would you have be my bride?”

“Ms. Parkinson.”

The urge to bounce his leg was almost unbearable. Narcissa should join the DMLE as a criminal interrogator. Ron was sure she could make anyone crack under pressure.

“And if she won’t have me?”

Her lip curved again, “I hear you two are already rather close.”

Ron thanked Merlin that Narcissa was not actually his mother. Ron’s mum could be a handful and a half on a good day, but she never pried into his sex life. At the end of the day, she wanted her children to be paired with people they loved – he could tell from ten minutes with Narcissa that she had no such inclinations. Mum also would not be giving him this cold look. She would be beaming thinking of her son in a relationship with a witch as perfect as Pansy. He was sure of it.

“Don’t be crass, Mother.”

“Her parents and I have already discussed it. Unless one of you finds a suitable match, you’ll marry at the end of the Summer.” She sat eerily still and pretended not to have dropped a metaphorical bombarda on Malfoy’s life.

Ron had no idea what to say. Would Malfoy fight back? Would he hang his head and agree on the terms? This felt truly unprecedented.

Strangely, Ron felt sorry for Malfoy. Malfoy – who had just confessed his love (ridiculous as it was) for Hermione Granger. Who, Ron imagined, did not fall in the ‘suitable’ category in Narcissa’s mind. If Malfoy married Pansy, he might never get the opportunity to even explore these newfound feelings for Hermione. Ron fought his shudder. He didn’t like thinking of Malfoy with Hermione, she was far too good for him. She was far too good for most of the blokes she’d been with since school. Malfoy was almost definitely too high to be believed in his random proclamations of love. Best not to worry about that at all.

But Ron also thought of Pansy. Ron’s time with her these last few days was…illuminating. She was growing on him (like mould, but growing nonetheless). He liked the way she thought about things, it was like everything had a yes or no answer. Her opinion was law and her law was fact. And Ron suddenly felt an urgent sense of jealousy at the idea that Malfoy would get her. It felt like that – like Malfoy was “getting” some sort of prize for being wealthy and of many generations of pure blood. Malfoy did not deserve Pansy.

It was only a split second since the time that Narcissa gave her ultimatum but it felt like ages. He hardly thought through the consequences before he spoke. He thought only of one thing – Pansy, and how she had said her family did not love her. He thought for a moment, before truly letting the thought linger, that he might be able to show her a different world. And then he said something that had the potential to ruin at least four lives.

“I won’t be marrying Pansy, Mother.”

Narcissa gave a delicate huff and he spoke more before she could interrupt him. “I can’t marry her because I am courting Hermione Granger.”

Notes:

Things are getting complicated...

Chapter 9: Chapter 9

The next time Draco awoke, it was apparently Thursday afternoon. He felt better than he had in days. None of the usual aches and pains were present. The moment of uncertainty was still there though.

The panicky feeling one gets when one wakes in an unfamiliar bed at an inn or hungover at a friend’s house. Except, for him, it was a different body. It was discombobulating to wake up and see the freckled and calloused hands that didn’t belong to him. It was even more bizarre to see Granger’s face next to his hospital bed pulled into a perpetual state of concern.

Draco could finally push aside the thoughts of love as a symptom of being bombed in combat. He wasn’t in love with Hermione Granger: he was drugged to the high heavens and infatuated with the first witch he laid eyes on. It was like discovering a cast had been taken off a limb that hadn’t even been broken. He was free of her.

Except that final vision of her was on a perpetual loop in his brain. Weasley had confirmed it wasn’t a memory. It was utterly himself – Draco Malfoy was having sex dreams about Hermione Granger.

He loved it. He would do anything to have more.

Her attention was like a beam of sun shining directly on him. Her hands probed him softly, but with the confidence of a well-practiced healer. Her eyes scanned him quickly every time she checked on him, as if making sure he was still there in one piece. And don’t think he didn’t notice that she left the door open so that she could keep one eye on him while she stood doing paperwork in the hall.

Yes, he loved it.

He knew he would never get this attention as himself. It was Ron’s body that was receiving it, Ron's history with Hermione that was the cause behind the frown and pinked cheeks. Draco wanted it so badly – more than anything he had ever wanted – and he wanted it from her.

Draco hadn’t had anymore of the odd visions that he’d had after the attack, which he was honestly a bit put out by. He considered what he could do to bring more on. What was so bad about essence drift? Would it really be so bad to be Ron Weasley? If it meant Granger would keep looking at him like that? Well, he’d never been this close to wishing he was Ron.

This thought was the catalyst for the overwhelming stir craziness that had him whinging loudly to Granger to send him home. He just had to be away from her. It was her presence that was sending him spiraling.

“We have to keep monitoring your ribs, Ronald.” She said patiently for the third time in a row now. “And the potential for internal bleeding —”

“Is much lower after 48 hours,” Draco interrupted. “Besides, you can keep monitoring me from Grimmauld. There’s no real reason for me to be cooped up in this hospital bed.”

The sheets were so scratchy, he could die. The head healer so beautiful, he’d do it himself.

Granger sighed, apparently used to Weasley’s whinging, “Alright, I’ll send you home.”

Draco fought the urge to pump his fist in the air.

“But,” she said over his obvious glee, “you can’t go to Grimmauld. Harry and Ginny are working and I have to stay here to finish my shift. I won’t leave you alone in that mangy old place.”

Draco furrowed his brow, where on earth would she send him?

“I’ll call Molly – I’m sure she will be by in just a few minutes to gather you,” Granger said this with the finality of a death knell and Draco hid his grimace.

Molly Weasley. The Burrow. It sounded decidedly not restful and he feared the sheets there would be even less comfortable than those here at St. Mungo’s.

Granger was milling about the room checking doses and sending paper memos into the air for other departments. She handed him a paper bag of his things with a resigned sigh before she exited the room. The bag had a pair of jeans, a horrifyingly ugly sweater, trunks, and the two-way notebook he shared with Weasley. He supposed he deserved this. It was some sort of restitution for his acts as a teenager – the fact that his worldly possessions belonged to another man and fit inside a lumpy paper bag.

Draco dressed and readied himself for the road ahead. He’d lived with the Dark Lord for a year, surely he could handle Molly Weasley for less than a week?

It was no sooner that he had the thought that the woman herself came barreling through the door.

“Oh good, you’re finally awake,” Molly said, shuffling quickly to his front and checking him over with her hands. “You gave us a right fright with this nonsense, Ron Weasley.”

For the first time, Draco felt warmly towards Molly. Could it be from the memory/vision he had the other night? She had held him to her chest, cradling him while he cried softly. Frankly, it could be from the very rare occasion of someone caring for him so sincerely.

“I’m alright, Mother – Mum,” he corrected himself, stumbling over the formalities he was used to. “Just ready to get out of here and back home.”

Molly beamed at this, taking his hand and nearly dragging him out of the hospital. Granger stopped them in the hall, rattling off care instructions for the next few days as if she wasn’t coming to visit the Burrow tonight.

“Alright, Dear,” Molly acquiesced, pocketing the potions Granger passed her. Molly pulled her into what looked to be a bonecrushing hug and Granger squeaked adorably. “Thank you for saving him and putting him back to rights.”

“Of course, Mrs. Weasley,” she responded through her tight ribs. “He deserves this and more.”

Draco felt a pull in his chest, not dissimilar to the yank of apparition. Perhaps his ribs weren’t as healed as he had thought.

The Burrow smelled like a meadow. His first step out of the floo and he was immediately overwhelmed by the space. Mismatched chairs and sofas littered the main room with crocheted blankets thrown over their edges and overstuffed pillows stacked atop one another. All the windows were open and a soft breeze carried through.

Draco took in a deep breath of fresh air before he was barrelled into by a child aged somewhere between 5 and 15.

“Teddy!” Molly shrilled, “Be careful – Ron has just left hospital. He’s very fragile.”

She patted Draco’s cheek with a warm smile, passing him to head to the kitchen.

“Sorry,” The child, Teddy, said, sounding none too sorry at all. He had the same shocking red hair as the rest of the Weasleys, but Draco couldn’t remember there being one as young as this. “While you were out, Molly wouldn’t let me use the broom. So, now that you’re back, I can fly again. Let’s go.”

He spoke at potentially the speed of light. Draco blinked a few times to process what Teddy said, but was already being pulled through the living room and out the back door.

“I modified the cleansweeps with an incantation that will help them speed up and take angles better. I also replaced most of the bristles. You said yourself that they hadn’t been replaced since the first wizarding war. So I went across the field and got some hay. It isn’t the best, but I think with some extra polish, they might do the trick.”

Draco was torn between being horrified and impressed by the young wizard in front of him. “Are you allowed to use magic outside of school?”

He had narrowed the age range to between 10 and 15 around the time Teddy mentioned angles.

“The ministry has a search party out for me now” Teddy said with a quirked eyebrow. He put his wrists together in front of him, “Would you like to do the honors, Auror Weasley?”

“Ha ha.” Draco looked around for a real adult to take over. For once, it seemed there was not a Weasley to be found. Just his luck.

“Harry did the spellwork, obviously,” Teddy rolled his eyes like Draco was the dumbest person he’d met in years. He went on for at least five more minutes about the pros and cons of hay versus twigs for brooms. He had numerous sources for his facts and Draco began to wonder who exactly the boy’s parents were. “Let’s race, then?”

Teddy held a broom out towards Draco, who was nearly desperate to grab it. The weather was just right for a ride. The breeze was light and perfect for a quick spin around the Weasley’s ample yard. He hadn’t been for a proper ride in ages. He’d loved flying, but it was too difficult to find the space or the time.

Draco, not caring that he had just been laying in a hospital bed for four days, or rather, because he had been laying for four days, took the broom and shot into the sky before Teddy knew what to do. The boy’s shouts slowly faded into nothing as the wind picked up around Draco’s ears. This was what he had been missing.

Teddy came up next to him, fighting the cleansweep for control with his kid-sized muscles. “A bit persnickety still, I suppose.”

Draco looked at the odd child. “No one says persnickety. Also, I could have told you that hay causes tail wag. Twigs or even metal would be better.”

“Metal?” Teddy risked taking a fist off the handle to push his bangs from his eyes. It was no use, the wind was too much. He lost about a foot of altitude for the action.

“Mmm, copper or iron give better control over enchantments. There’s a book about it that I’ll bring for you.”

“Ugh,” Teddy groaned, “You sound like Mione.”

Draco’s heart beat a little faster at the mention of Granger.

After at least thirty minutes of flying, Draco’s head felt clearer than it had in months. They touched down on the grass and Draco could’ve soared sans broom with adrenaline from the ride.

Draco was in the middle of describing enchanted polymers and stability anchors that were found on newer broom models – a topic he found endlessly fascinating and was pleased to find Teddy just as interested when they were interrupted by a familiar shriek.

“Ronald Weasley!”

Granger was stomping across the lawn, healers robes billowing with each step.

“Oh, fuck,” Draco murmured.

“Swear jar,” Teddy giggled, before running past Granger and away from the impending doom she brought with her.

“I cannot believe you would go against my instructions,” Granger stopped a few inches away from him to scan his body for signs of injury. He knew she saw the wind blown hair and his cheeks reddened from the wind. “I specifically told you not to fly.”

“Teddy—”

“Don’t interrupt. I suppose I should have told you not to listen to the whims of a preteen, so that’s on me. But I really thought you would have the mind to not endanger yourself within moments of leaving St. Mungo’s.”

“I actually feel —”

“Ridiculous! Your mother sends me a note to say that you are out flying with Teddy and ‘was that in my care notes?’ Do you realize how stupid that sounds? It makes me look like a terrible healer.”

“I’m sorry, Hermione, I just —”

“Whatever. Dinner is ready and we shouldn’t keep the others waiting. You’re on my list, Ronald.”

Draco didn’t have to ask… he knew it was bad to be on her list. But what a joy to have her full attention.

They sat around the long wooden table that took up at least three quarters of the kitchen. A dozen or so Weasleys were shouting at each other in a cacophony of overwhelming chaos. Draco felt lost in the masses, his only light the soft smile that Granger deigned to send his way every so often.

“Stop looking at her like that,” Potter murmured from Draco’s side.

“At who? Like what?” Draco shoved some mashed potatoes in his mouth, all too happy to play dumb.

Potter sighed, “At Hermione like you want to… you know.”

Draco chewed his food slowly and let Potter linger in his obvious discomfort.

“Don’t make me say it,” Potter looked nervously around the table as if state secrets were about to be revealed. Draco got very little excitement in his daily life at The Shoppe (unless one counted the hateful howlers he got in the mail (which Draco didn’t)) so he found he quite liked this intrigue in Weasley’s life.

“You’re acting all flirty,” Potter shifted in his seat, leaning closer. “Things just ended with Padma, moving on so quickly will make waves. Not to mention Hermione was the reason you had so many struggles with Padma. And also, Hermione is your friend, need I remind you. Has something happened?”

Draco mulled over this question. Yes, something had happened – a great many things. For one, he was in another man’s body. Couldn’t ignore that. But he was also trying and failing to keep new and very strong feelings for Granger at bay. He thought back to Weasley’s reaction yesterday, granted Draco was drug addled at the time, but Weasley was sufficiently surprised at Draco’s proclamation of love. Rightfully, Draco supposed. Draco had spent no time with Granger other than a few arguments, a meal, and a movie.

And yet. She was undeniable.

Draco shook his head, “I can’t say that it has.”

Potter’s shoulders sagged like a physical weight had been lifted.

Draco leaned forward, “but what would it look like if something had happened. You know… what would happen?”

Potter dropped his voice to a whisper, “If something had happened I would say don’t let it happen again. And I would say that such a happening would be,” his eyes darted around the table, “catastrophic for certain familial relationships. Is it going to happen, then?”

“Well, that depends on what you mean by happen.”

“You know. Happen-happen,” Potter shifted. “I’m not keen on it happening at all, if I’m honest.”

“It’s been circling around happening for a few days now. Since before the injury.” Draco wasn’t sure if he was speaking for himself or Weasley. Or neither.

“Lots of things circle. Planes. Vultures. That doesn’t mean they should happen.”

“If it doesn’t happen soon, it might happen by accident,” Draco didn’t know what he planned to do next, despite the plot he shared with Weasley. Anything could happen.

Potter ran a hurried hand through his hair, “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. Accidental happening.”

“You’re overthinking the happening,” Draco said, trying again to catch Granger’s eye.

Potter grabbed his arm to get his attention, “And you’re underthinking it. That’s how things happen that shouldn’t happen.”

“So… we’re agreed it’s happening?”

“No. We’re agreed it’s threatening to happen, which is very different.”

Draco was bored by the ridiculous Potter-Weasley politics that he’d stumbled into. The conversation would be significantly less dull had it been had with another Slytherin. Potter couldn’t help but hide his fear that his two best friends would happen. Childish is what it was. He hid his sneer, Potter was just as useless as always.

He searched himself – was this Weasley’s smothered love for a long-time friend? One day he was wasting his nights with Pansy and the next he was desperately wishing Granger would just look up at him from across the table. Was the memory merge to blame? Something strong but vague told him no.

“Don’t let it happen,” Potter said.

Before Draco could respond, a silver basset hound bounded through the brick wall and heeled by Potter’s seat at the table. The Weasleys came to a surprised (and rare, from what Draco had witnessed) silence while they waited for what the hound had to say.

It was Angelina Johnson’s voice that emitted from the dog, “A fifth body has been found in Blackpool. Vampyres suspected. Come quickly.”

Potter stood and rounded the table to leave a kiss on the she-Weasel’s head, “I’ll be back later.”

“That vampyre is some nasty business, Harry,” Arthur Weasley said. “Watch yourself.”

“Of course,” Harry turned to Draco, “Coming Ron?”

Before Draco could even raise his brow, Granger was shouting.

“Absolutely not. He is still a patient under my care. I will not allow him near any active crime scenes.”

“It’s hardly still active—”

“Just a dead body and an eager serial killer on the loose?” Granger had gone smiling to seething in no time. Draco marvelled at how much she cared about him. Weasley. How much she cared for Weasley.

Draco stood and crossed the room to Potter. He could feel the Weasleys’ stare.

“With your permission as my healer, I’d like to go to this crime scene where there will be no active combat or even physically taxing tasks. You’ve done a great job as my healer these last few days and I’d like to put that to good use and do my job.” Draco loved feeling morally superior. It was something he could rarely do in his own life. But in Weasley’s? Well, it was his greatest strength.

Granger’s eye twitched and he guarded himself for a fight.

“I’ll do better than my permission,” Granger said, crossing her arms, “You can have my presence. Let’s go.”

“No!” Both he and Potter said at the same time.

“Absolutely not. This is not the place for a civilian,” Potter said.

“It is not the place for a patient barely out of a coma, either,” Granger grabbed a fistful of floo powder and readied for a journey no one wanted her to take, “Allow me to put it this way — either all three of us go, or no one goes.”

Draco swallowed and fought back a smile.

“Hermione. You can’t stop an official auror investigation. Not one of this magnitude,” Potter sighed, already putting on his own cloak.

“Watch me,” she replied before she was swallowed by the green flames of the floo and carried off to Blackpool.

Potter followed after her, murmuring something under his breath about auror business and throwing Granger in a dungeon where she couldn’t bother anyone.

Draco played his part as a dutiful son, saying goodbye to Weasley’s parents and even giving a soft farewell to Teddy who was looking more than a bit peeved that future quidditch practice would be put off for an indeterminate amount of time.

When Draco arrived at the crime scene he wondered why he fought so hard to come. He hated dead bodies.

The crowd of aurors parted for him as he stepped through a random pub’s floo and towards the scene. He could have sworn one or two junior investigators bowed when he neared. The body was slumped in an alleyway amongst the rubbish bins and empty ale crates.

Angelina Johnson rattled off the particulars of the case, “Black male, late sixties. His wand is stallion hair and oak. Not yet identified, but we presume he lives in the area. Investigators are canvasing the neighborhood. The cause of death is presumed loss of blood.”

Potter cocked his head, “He has a wand?”

“This doesn’t align with the other murders, does it?” Granger – in her stained white trainers and denims, her healer robes long forgotten – picked her way across the cobblestones towards the body.

“Don’t touch anything, Hermione,” Potter said, following her trail. “And at least act like you don’t know all the details of a private ministry investigation.”

Draco stood back, hands in his pockets. He pretended to inspect the walls of the buildings and the entryway to the alley. Ten meters from the body was close enough for his taste.

“This body hasn’t been drained of all its blood,” Granger levitated the wrist of the corpse. “You can see some of it pooling here. That’s not typical for the killer, no?”

Potter knelt down to inspect, “Ron, come look at this.”

Draco cursed Weasley’s job for the dozenth time and took a deep inhale through his mouth, holding it as he stepped carefully towards the body. He nodded silently at Potter and Granger, hoping his agreement was enough to get them moving.

Potter shifted the corpse’s head so that the side of his neck was in view.

Draco’s sharp inhale of breath had nothing to do with the two fang marks in the man’s neck and more to do with the fact that upon closer inspection, he knew the man.

“Yes,” Potter said, intuiting something else from Draco’s reaction, “You see the blood gathering here? The job wasn’t completed. The other bodies were completely drained.”

“Not to mention the way this body was found dumped with the rubbish. The others were set up neatly in public places with distracted eye witnesses,” Granger cut in.

Potter looked up at Draco, “Did you have to tell her every detail?”

Draco shrugged, not entirely sure how much Weasley had told Granger. In all honesty, he was still reeling from recognizing the man laying dead on the street. He was a secretive man, and there was no surprise that no one at the scene had yet to identify him. Humphrey Trellis was Draco’s primary connection for underground potions ingredients on the black market. The hard to get materials that often required death or dismemberment of certain protected magical creatures. Trellis got the ingredients and Draco paid without asking any questions.

Potter sighed, “She’s right, this was a rushed job. In fact, I don’t see the calling card of The Kiss like usual. Has anyone seen anything, Johnson?”

Johnson shook her head and Potter stood to inspect the walls of the alleyway more closely.

“You look pale, Ron,” Granger said, rising to touch a cold hand to his face. “Maybe you should go back to the burrow. I was right – this is too much too soon.”

He tried to swat her hand away, only managing to grab it in his own. “I’m alright, Hermione. Just getting my bearings, is all.”

She tilted her head, eyes roaming across his face. He knew what she saw. Ron Weasley, a bit peaky but still a good sport. Not Draco Malfoy, near faint and panicking from being too close to a dead man he’d spoken to less than two weeks ago. But they stood there, her hand in his, cupped against his face.

Perhaps it was the fragility of life that he was confronting with Trellis’ death. Perhaps it was the way her lips looked slightly puckered and frighteningly inviting. But Draco couldn’t help himself (in fact, he felt very certain in it being the necessary next step) from kissing her.

Notes:

Aha!! Strap in kids

Chapter 10: Chapter 10

The sensation of their lips connecting was not dissimilar to Longbottom’s poorly cast bombarda. For the second time in one week, Draco felt like he’d been caught up in an earth quaking explosion.

The kiss started softly – for fear that he’d scare her off (or more likely, scare himself into second thoughts). Her small sigh sent his stomach plummeting, egging him on to deepen the kiss. It was nothing like kissing Pansy or the random others who he’d led to his bed over the years. This felt real. Like it was lighting up every nerve end in his body for the first time. He slipped a hand into her curls, angling her head just so. Draco relished in the tangle of her hair on his knuckles. He mentally kicked himself for ever mocking her for it.

It was a kiss to end all kisses. And he wasn’t even himself.

He pulled away practically against his will, “Granger, I…”

Draco didn’t know what to say. He had no excuse for it. She didn’t know it was him and that made the kiss one of the worst of his life. He had to explain. The pull he’d felt towards her, his identity, and the dire need.

It was ruined, as most things are, by Harry fucking Potter.

“Erm…” Potter stood at the alley’s entrance, slack jawed in shock.

Granger blinked like she was coming out of a stupor before jumping back from Draco. She stared at Draco for a moment in confusion – he supposed one’s friend kissing them seemingly out of nowhere in an alley could cause such a quizzical expression. He was a bit concerned his own face was showing a similar horror.

“Sorry to interrupt an intimate moment.”

Draco jerked his head toward the familiar voice. Apparently, he’d been too distracted by the earth shattering kiss with Granger to notice Weasley standing at Potter’s side. If Draco didn’t know better, he would say Weasley looked a bit upset at the scene he’d stumbled into.

Granger’s blush was spreading practically to her hairline. Draco almost couldn’t stand how adorable it was. He wanted to kiss her until the blush stretched down her chest.

Potter cleared his throat in the extended awkward silence, “Hermione, there’s a muggle inside who could use some medical attention, can I steal you?”

Granger nodded dumbly at Potter before snapping into gear and practically running from the alley. She hardly took care to avoid the bloodless corpse at their feet. Draco wondered distantly if he could’ve found a more romantic location for their first kiss. A kiss like that deserved a field of roses, a hired quartet, and sky writing. Not a collection of rubbish bins, a dead body, and the light scratching of rats on the pavement. To be fair, Draco had not imagined kissing Granger to be so perfect, and thus, had not planned for any of the former.

“What the bloody fuck?”

Weasley’s hiss pulled Draco from his daydreams.

He double checked that Potter and Granger had turned the corner, “This is none of your business, Weasley.”

“None of my —” Weasley stuttered and gestured to Draco’s body. He supposed Weasley had a point. Weasley gathered himself in what Draco could admit was a very Malfoy-esque masking of true emotions, “Why can’t you just leave her out of this?”

“Impossible,” He ran a hand through his hair, whispering the rest under his breath, “It was inevitable.”

“Alright Professor Trelawney,” Weasley rolled his eyes. “But you’ve gone too far this time.”

“I told you my plan yesterday.”

Weasley groaned, “You were high! I thought you were going to forget the entire conversation. You’ve snogged my best mate! As me!”

Draco eyed the distraught look on Weasley’s face. He honestly couldn’t agree more. And thus, quickly changed the subject, “Why’d you come here? How did you know we were here?”

Weasley didn’t respond right away, averting his eyes.

“Your hesitation isn’t inspiring much confidence, Weasley.”

He sighed and pulled a sheet of parchment from his travelling robes. “This was sent to your flat less than an hour ago.

Draco took it from him, scanning it quickly before cursing under his breath.

Join us for dinner. Tomorrow. - XX

Draco’s stomach dropped. An invite from The Kiss to a wizard was not a good sign. It was more or less a warning shot.

Weasley spoke calmly given the threat that Draco held in his hand, “The Kiss knows you’re involved. I sent a copy to Harry – as you, of course – and he told me to meet you all here.”

Draco swallowed and wished his stomach would stop swooping. He could try to write it off as Granger-related, but he knew better.

Weasley went on, “This murder is unlike the others, they’re getting sloppy. Tomorrow will be a good time to confront them. No need to stake them out when they’ve sent us an invitation, yeah?”

“No!” Draco blinked at Weasley, “I know you’re not the most intelligent, but I thought you’d gotten a bit more clever since school. This is clearly a trap. It’ll be an ambush.”

“One I’d be prepared for. This was the plan all along. They’ve just moved up the timeline”

Draco shook his head, exasperated with Weasley’s seemingly endless stupidity. “Dinner means blood.”

“I figured that’s what they were implying.”

“And?”

“And, what?”

Draco chuckled heartlessly, “That doesn’t concern you at all?”

Weasley shrugged, “I’ve had worse.”

“Those vampyres won’t hesitate to kill you. I know you helped save the world at seventeen and have been riding the hero train to the top ranks of the auror department, but this is out of your league.”

“You’re in a Gryffindor’s shoes, Malfoy. Stop acting like such a coward,” Weasley slipped his hands in his pockets and Draco tried not to crack his knuckles.

He took three deep breaths to try and center himself. Between Weasley’s incessant stupidity and Granger’s distracting presence, this case was starting to take its toll.

He gestured at the man at their feet, “Do you know who this is?”

Weasley knelt and, using Malfoy’s wand, turned the body’s head to get a closer look.

When he gave no response, Draco continued, “He’s my potion’s runner. Humphrey Trelis. Gets all my illegal ingredients. Supplies over half of knockturn alley.

Weasley frowned at this, cocking his head as he continued to examine the body.

“Not only does The Kiss know I’m involved, but they're killing people I work with. This is obviously a threat in more ways than one. You cannot go there tomorrow. They don’t invite wizards to their dens. It isn’t done. And with this new murder—”

“It doesn’t follow the usual pattern,” Weasley said, ignoring Draco’s warnings.

Draco gritted his teeth, “The only thing worse than a vampyre serial killer is an inconsistent one.”

Weasley huffed a laugh, “All the more reason to see what’s going on.”

Draco felt his eyes bulge.

“You’ll be safe and sound at home, Malfoy.”

“We don’t know that!” Draco began pacing the small area of the alley. “If you die as me, I may just cease to exist. Or worse, live as Ron Weasley forever.”

Weasley smirked, “You seemed to be enjoying being me a few minutes ago.”

Draco was thinking the same thing. Having only one identity would straighten out the Granger-sized complication in his life. But he wouldn’t let Weasley know that.

Weasley straightened, “By-the-by, I met with your mother for tea yesterday when you were in hospital.”

Draco chuckled lowly, “I’m sure that went well.”

“You may wish to stay Ron Weasley permanently when you hear the details.” Weasley grimaced, “She is requesting that you marry by the end of Summer.”

“It’s only June,” Draco sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was not what he needed right now. “That gives me plenty of time to get out of it. She offered up Parks, yes?”

Weasley nodded, but didn’t go on.

Draco narrowed his eyes, “Anything else?”

He cleared his throat, “I may have mentioned, or, I suppose, I alluded to – that, well –”

“Yes, get to the point.”

“That I am courting Hermione,” Weasley’s words came out in a rush of breath.

Draco’s mind went blank, supplying nothing helpful to work through what Weasley admitted. “Excuse me?”

Weasley swore under his breath. This time, he spoke slowly and clearly. Almost boastful, “I told Narcissa that I couldn’t marry Pansy because I am courting Hermione Granger.”

“Say that again?”

Hermione stood at the mouth of the alley. Draco was still having a hard time processing that Weasley had told Draco’s mother that he was courting Hermione bloody Granger. The woman herself seemed to be having similar troubles. Draco had a sinking feeling that there was no coming back from this. Granger would never forgive the duplicity involved.

She stared menacingly at Weasley, who apparently took too long to answer because Hermione was stalking slowly towards them. Draco had seen this particular ire their third year in school. Weasley should be seeking cover.

“Say. That. Again.” Each word was punctuated with a step on the pavement. A death knell. For once, Weasley didn’t even have the armor of being her best friend. He was in her enemy’s body for fuck’s sake.

“I told my mother that I’m courting you.”

Draco was impressed that Weasley’s voice came out even and not squeaky and terrified.

“Why would you say such a thing?” Granger hissed.

Draco couldn’t help the grin. Seeing Weasley put in his place was exactly what this situation called for. Why would he tell Draco’s mother this? There was not a scenario in the world where Draco would have done something similar. So much for leaving Granger out of things.

“I–” Weasley swallowed, “I love you.”

Draco felt a little bit like he could throw up. Perhaps he could trade places with the corpse.

The tense silence was broken by a giggle – Granger’s giggle – which quickly turned into a full on laugh.

After a moment, once he seemed sure she wasn’t about to hex him, Weasley smiled, joining in with a few chuckles of his own. Draco knew his own grin had fallen from his face.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she practically snorted. “I had no idea you had a sense of humor, Malfoy.”

“Er…” Weasley’s laughs turned nervous, “I, actually, am very serious.”

Her laughter stopped abruptly.

“This is insane,” Draco said, feeling like he’d only just found his footing in what was playing out, “Hermione —”

She held up her hand, effectively silencing him, “I’ll deal with you later.”

Weasley seemed to delight in her angst and the way Draco cowed at her dismissal. His smugness dissipated quickly, however, when she started to slowly advance on him, walking in a small circle around him. She was investigating Weasley very intensely.

“Go on.”

“My mother is pressuring me to marry before summer’s end,” Weasley rubbed the back of his neck. “I wanted some… agency.”

She came to a stop in front of him, searching his face. “What’s your play here, Malfoy?”

“A bloke can’t love a smart, kind, beautiful witch?”

It was word for word what Draco had said to him from his hospital bed yesterday. He saw red for a moment. What the hell was Weasley doing? Draco had a plan. Perhaps it was ill thought out, but it was still a better plan that whatever the fuck Weasley was doing. Granger was scanning Weasley up and down and Draco almost felt as though he could feel her gaze from where he stood.

She cocked her head, “Your mother has a charity ball on Saturday, yes?”

“Er…”

“Pick me up at seven. Don’t be late,” Granger spun on her heel, looking over her shoulder at Draco as she left the alley, “I just came to say that I’m going to the hospital with this muggle. I’ll see you at the burrow tonight.”

She was gone before Draco could respond. Had that been a threat or an invitation? Everything was jumbled up in his head. The Kiss and the kiss. Draco was flirting with Granger as Weasley and also now Weasley was courting her as Draco? He felt a bit like he’d been in hospital for three days.

“What just happened?” Draco whispered.

“She just agreed to go on a date with Draco Malfoy,” Weasley said with a curled lip.

Draco leaned against the brick, unsure he could hold up his own weight.

Weasley sighed, “You’re happy I suppose. This is what you wanted.”

“No…I want to go on a date with her. I want to court her,” Draco scrubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t want you to date her. You’ll ruin everything if she thinks you’re me.”

“She is my best friend, you know. I’d probably be rather good at dating her. I know everything she likes, dislikes, abhors.”

Draco looked up at this, “Right. But she wouldn’t be falling for me. She’d be falling for you. It feels disingenuous.”

Weasley scoffed, “Since when do you care about being disingenuous? You just snogged her and she didn’t even know it was you.”

“That’s different,” Draco frowned. It felt different. A little. Something about personality. Getting to know one another on a different level. But he knew it wasn’t. He knew because of the look Granger had given him — like she didn’t recognize her best friend. He knew because when he kissed Granger the first time, it should have felt… well-earned? It was like he’d taken the easy way out. “Maybe it’s only a little different.”

Never admit to a Weasley that you are wrong.

Weasley stretched out his hand to pull Draco from the wall, “Look – we’ll just have to switch back before the charity thing. That way you can woo her all by yourself, body and all.”

Draco nodded dumbly, having no earthly idea how to make the switch. Worried that he and Weasley had done too much damage already. Terrified that the best kiss of his life was also the last.

Perhaps sensing this, Weasley went on, “All you have to do is some research. You’ll come up with a plan for swapping back. I’ll go to the den.”

Draco started to protest, but Weasley spoke over him, “Send me everything you know about The Kiss in the shared notebooks. I can handle this, Malfoy. This is what I do.”

Two days. They had to fix this in two days.

—

Draco hesitated at the threshold of the burrow’s floo. He was weak and exhausted and had stood next to a dead person for entirely too long. It was late in the evening but he could still hear some of the family chattering on various floors of the swaying shack. Only one lamp was on in the den, casting a low glow over the mismatched furniture. It was so far from the quiet, sullenness of the Malfoy family home. Something about it made his heart squeeze.

He took a moment to sit on the overstuffed chair. He had to speak with Granger. He had to set everything straight. She’d said yes to going on a date with Weasley – or himself, he supposed. It occurred to Draco that maybe he should be offended. It was himself he was in competition with, after all. But she didn’t know that obviously. Did their kiss mean nothing to her?

He had to tell her everything.

As if he’d thought her into existence (if only that were the case), she stepped from the roaring floo.

She gave him a slow scan, “Long day?”

Draco nodded slowly. His head felt so heavy.

“Let me help you to bed,” She reached out a hand to him, pulling him to her side. “Sorry I got dragged away. You know how it is – the second a doctor arrives, someone falls ill. We think Neville’s memory spell mucked with her sinuses. The poor woman was dribbling coffee from her nose for an hour before we could reverse it.”

Her voice soothed him. He didn’t care what she talked about. Whatever Granger said he felt he could believe. She spoke with such certainty and confidence.

She led him to the narrow staircase, guiding him up step by step. He relished her warm hand on his arm. They stopped at doorway and he looked about for why.

“This is you,” she chuckled.

“Ah, right.” Draco couldn’t pull his eyes away from her.

She licked her lips.

“I want to talk to you.” He didn’t mean about anything specific (like specifically their kiss earlier), he could listen to her talk about anything. His thoughts were abruptly cut off by her lunging for another kiss. It was nothing like the slow exploratory kiss from earlier. This was rough and searching.

Draco’s body suddenly felt healthy again. Like her kiss was literally fixing all of his problems. No headache, no exhaustion.

“I had no idea,” she said, pausing breathlessly. Their foreheads were touching and he delighted in the heat of their breaths mingling. “Maybe it was your accident at work – there’s a whole muggle psychology study called the Florence Nightingale Effect. It’s where a caregiver develops feelings for their patients – ridiculously unethical, really.”

Draco stole another kiss. Okay, so he liked hearing her talk, but he liked kissing her more. He lost himself in it, slotting their lips together until they were once again breathless. He had to stop. Every kiss they shared with him as Weasley was a lie. Ridiculously unethical, really.

“Anyway,” she swallowed, “Remember the film from before your accident? Marty’s mother kisses him?”

Draco smirked, “The incest plot line. How could I forget?”

“Exactly. Well, I thought it would be like that. To kiss you, I mean. Like kissing my brother. I dunno I could just be assigning something to nothing, but this is nothing like I imagined. Not that I imagined it frequently, if ever.”

She trailed off before capturing his lips again. Draco was unwilling to let there be any distance between them, pulling her hips against his. Granger ran her nails against the back of his neck and he shivered. Maybe she didn’t have to know. Maybe she never would have to find out.

“What were you saying?” He was only half joking. His thoughts were addled.

Granger smiled, her lips delightfully swollen. “I’m saying you seem different or I suppose, I suddenly feel different about you. And I’m genuinely stunned. All signs have pointed to us being incompatible.”

Draco kissed her again, he wanted to tell her that there was something very different about Weasley. The difference being that it wasn’t Weasley at all. Draco pulled away.

“So you’ll cancel your date with Malfoy?”

She chuckled, “No, I think I’ll keep it.”

He frowned, leaning back to get a better look at her face in the dim evening light.

“I’m curious,” Granger rolled her eyes. “Don’t you want to see where this goes?”

Draco narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t sure where to go from here. Weasley would obviously speak poorly of Draco if it were him. But if Draco spoke well of himself, he might a. Blow his cover and b. Drive Granger towards being with the real him. Or the fake him, depending on how one looked at it. Or he could just tell her. Admit to the whole thing.

His headache was back.

“Don’t be jealous,” Granger said, only slightly touching on the truth. “It’s a professional event more than anything. Narcissa Malfoy has raised millions of galleons for St. Mungo’s. I was already planning to attend. Now, maybe the Malfoys will be more inclined to send their money towards my wing of the hospital.”

Draco huffed, “You sneaky witch.”

“Besides, he doesn’t seem like as much of a prat as he was in school after all. He carries himself differently.”

Slouched and plebian? Draco tried to unclench his teeth, “Sounds like you’re head over heels already.”

Granger smiled at his obvious jealousy, presumably to keep him from forming a coherent thought. It worked.

“I don’t want to think about Draco Malfoy right now.”

He was finding this more confusing by the minute. Was he glad she was so invested in this moment that she couldn’t think of anyone else – except they were specifically talking about himself. Coupled with the way her hands ran through his hair, there was no luck for him to think clearly about the situation.

“Maybe you should think about Draco Malfoy.”

Granger cocked her head, “Er…”

“I mean, personality wise he’s—”

“A prat.” She concluded for him.

“And he’s really quite—”

“Stuck up.”

“You know the old saying, never judge a dragon by its hide?” Draco wasn’t sure where exactly he was going with this.

“Yes,” Granger narrowed her eyes. “Although, it makes no sense to me. Dragons can and should be judged by hides. In fact, hides are one of the five main identifiers.”

“But,” He cut her off before she went rambling on, “It’s very important to factor in the other identifiers. We know that hides can shift and change with age, personality, and environment. It can be useful to not rely on hides.”

Granger started listing the identifiers, delving deep into the benefits and drawbacks of each. Draco sighed, this was quickly turning into a Care of Magical Creatures class and not the poignant, if futile, point he wanted to make about his current identity crisis.

So caught up that they didn’t notice the figures standing on the landing across from them until a soft creak caught their attention. Hermione gasped at Harry fucking Potter and Teddy gawping at them.

Because of course Potter would ruin this moment for him yet again.

“Bloody hell,” Draco mumbled.

For a moment, no one spoke. Although their heavy breathing seemed to be making Potter’s face a sickly shade of green.

“Swear jar,” Teddy said, trying and failing to hide a cheshire grin.

“Boys,” Granger nodded to them, “We are having a private moment.”

“You could find a more private place, then,” Potter said sullenly. Draco wasn’t sure such a place existed in the Burrow.

“Harry,” Granger chided.

He steered Teddy away, giving Granger and Draco a stern fatherly look as they continued up their stairs.

“Any chance they’ll keep this to themselves?”

Granger chuckled, “The whole family will know by 6am.”

“Brilliant.”

Granger pecked him on the cheek, before slipping up the stairs herself. She turned back a few steps later, to wink at Draco over her shoulder. He couldn’t stop his grin from spreading. Everything he knew about Granger was turned on its head. He was obsessed.

He had to tell her.

Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Notes:

Sorry for the wait!

“You can explain now, or after you have been drawn and quartered, why my mother thinks you’re courting Hermione Granger.” Pansy wasn’t even fully out of Malfoy’s fireplace as she spoke.

Ron considered the punishment, setting aside the crudely drawn map of The Kiss’s den.

She went on in his silence, dusting off her robes, “I know a spell that will do it all for me. I won’t even break a sweat.”

Ron chuckled at her bloodthirstiness, they hadn’t seen each other in a few days now, and her wit was a welcome distraction to his recent foray into The Kiss’s inner workings. Even if she did want to disembowel him. “Won’t you miss me?”

Pansy pretended to think about it, tapping a red nail to her chin, “No, I shan’t.”

She sat in the chair opposite his spot on the sofa, “Explain.”

Ron held up his hands in faux supplication, “I didn’t realize protecting you from a sham marriage was something that needed defending.”

Pansy blinked, “Protecting me?”

“I don’t like the idea of you being sold off to the highest bidder.”

She cocked her head, “Are you jealous?”

“I don’t like the idea of arranged marriages, period. It’s an antiquated pureblood tradition.”

“Such a bloody hero,” Pansy hummed, “Well, this particular tradition is hard to wiggle out of, and believe me, I’ve tried. But, my mother has recently informed me that if I don’t wed Draco, I’ll be shipped off to my third cousin in Bulgaria.”

“Wait—” Ron fumbled for a response.

“Vasil is only sixty-three and in great health, so we can still have a few happy years together. He requires an heir.”

Ron stared at her. He could tell she was serious, even though her light tone said otherwise. It was the way her mouth was downturned slightly on the edges. When he had become so attuned to expressions, he wasn’t sure.

“I didn’t mean for that —”

She interrupted him, “I should hope not. Otherwise I would think even less of wizarding Britain’s illustrious auror department.”

Ron huffed, “Pansy—”

“You need to wrap up this case before you ruin everything. I thought you could help my friends and Draco and even me. But you’re only making it worse.” She picked at her cuticles and murmured, “How foolish of me.”

Ron felt like he’d been slapped. “I was trying to help. I can fix this, I promise.”

Pansy scanned his face as if searching for the lie. “You’re nothing like him.”

He couldn’t help but smirk, “Now, that’s you not holding up their end of the bargain.”

She didn’t bite, apparently not in the mood for their usual games.

“It’s not just the way you carry yourself, although Draco would never be caught dead slouched on a sofa like this,” She gestured to the way he lay back with his legs propped on the coffee table. “No, I feel like I can actually see another person under his skin.”

“Who do you see?”

Pansy stood and crossed the short distance to him. His breath hitched when she settled on his lap, her thighs bracketing his. Ron was reminded why he liked her dresses so much – when she sat, they moved up just so on her legs.

They’d touched each other a few times over the past few days. A graze of elbows or knocking knees under the table. When she’d adjusted his hair the other day, he’d had to go to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.

But it was never like this. Never so electric. And never so blatantly on purpose.

She leaned to his ear, her breath hitting his neck and sending goosebumps down his arms, “Who are you?”

“I’m not at liberty to tell you that,” He closed his eyes.

She skimmed her lips down the column of his throat, “It’s too bad, really.”

“Oh?” He was having a hard time thinking, his hands having gravitated of their own accord to her thighs.

“I don’t fuck strangers.” She made her point with a slow grind of her hips.

He groaned at the motion, but stopped her from going further, pinning her hips in place. If she knew who he really was, they’d never be in this position.

“You don’t want me.”

Pansy, trapped by his hands, only leaned closer, centimeters from his lips. “Maybe I’ve been wanting the wrong things.”

She undid the top button of her dress. Ron’s grip tightened but he wasn’t sure anymore who it was meant to stop.

“This…sexual manipulation won’t get you anywhere,” Ron gulped. “In fact, it’s very unprofessional.”

It was hardly enough skin for a teenage boy to get excited by but Ron felt his heartbeat pick up pace. She hummed as if knowing the effect she had on him. Just a glimpse of her tanned collar bones and he was blinking back fantasies.

“Pansy…” Another button popped from its clasp and the silk was starting to billow. Was this the fucking Victorian era? Ron wanted to bang his head against a wall until he could think straight.

“You want me for yourself,” she said matter-of-factly. “You can admit that.”

Ron wished he was in his own body. He'd be taller still and could lift her up by her hips so she wrapped her—but they'd never be this close if he looked like himself. He’d never be within arms reach. Or even in the same room.

“You’re hurting my feelings,” Pansy said, pouting her lower lip. “I can only take your hesitation personally.”

Ron wanted to snort. As if she would bother to care what other people thought.

Before Ron could help himself, he was reaching out to graze the skin along her neck. She was even softer than he imagined (in his recent fantasy as of the last minute). Warmer, too, for someone with a cold fucking heart.

The sight of Malfoy’s long, pale fingers on her neck was enough to jolt him back to reality. He was in another man's body — a man who, for some reason or another, she trusted. She didn't want Ron Weasley.

He pulled his hand away, hating the distance.

“Not like this,” he said, his voice coming out gravelly.

Pansy leaned forward, her lips skimming the rough edges of his chin. He could feel her breath and the soft plump of her lips. He groaned, wanting so badly to finish what she was starting.

“Don’t hold back on my account,” she said into his neck, brushing her nose down to his shoulder. “Just a first name will do.”

He worried a bit that he’d leave finger shaped bruises in his wake. When she lightly bit down on the skin of his neck, he couldn’t help but buck his hips up to meet hers.

“Pansy, fuck, just— You don’t know who I am. And I won’t tell you. We can’t do this when you don’t know who I am.”

She leaned back so that they were face to face. The inadvertent grind of her hips against him had Ron’s head falling back against the sofa’s cushion.

“I have my suspicions.”

Ron collected himself, picking her up from his lap and tossing her unceremoniously to the sofa, crumpling the mound of notes he’d collected on the Vampyres. “Let me know when you figure it out and we can pick up where we left off.”

Pansy stared at him, her insolence coming off her in waves. “You are a wicked boy,” She paused, “You are a boy, aren’t you?”

Ron rolled his eyes, “Yes.”

But she wasn’t listening and instead shuffling through the parchment she’d sat on. “This is about The Kiss.”

Ron didn’t answer, just took a seat next to her to straighten out the stack. He’d been studying since yesterday when he left Malfoy and the aurors at the crime scene. Someone could quiz him about The Kiss’s long and bloody (or bloodless) history and he could recite all the details.

It was different from how he was in school, but he’d always taken his auror duties more seriously. A few years ago, Hermione had been surprised to see him up at the crack of dawn studying some case or another until she noted that it wasn’t that he was a bad student (he was), but that he wasn’t nearly as interested in the school material as he was about quidditch teams and dark magic.

“Planning a stake out?” The spark in Pansy’s eyes made Ron wish he was staking them out. He could bring her along, give her something to put her energy into.

“No, they’ve invited me in.”

She coughed a laugh, before straightening, “You’re considering it?”

Ron looked at the clock on the mantel, “I’ll leave just before 7. They are expecting me for dinner.”

Pansy’s eyes widened. If Ron didn’t know her better, he’d call it fear.

“You’re serious.”

It wasn’t a question, but Ron nodded.

“An invite is practically unheard of. Does Draco know about this?”

“Malfoy knows,” Ron sighed.

“Was he concerned? Was he wary that the Vampyres are contacting him now of all times? Do you have concerns that they know he is not…himself at the moment?”

Ron pursed his lips, these were astute questions for someone who wasn’t an actual investigator. “He was…cautious. But I have it under control. There’s a chance the Vampyres don’t know anything about his involvement in the case. Just coincidence.”

Pansy scoffed, “Nothing they do is coincidence. Have you considered that someone in the auror department is in their pocket? How else would they know to contact Draco?”

It was Ron’s turn to scoff, “That’s illegal.”

“So is hematophagy. Maybe your precious little aurors aren’t as trustworthy as you think.”

“That’s…that’s…” Ron stumbled and clinched his teeth, “Something to think about.”

She smirked, “You’re walking into a trap.”

“I know the risks. I’m confident I can protect Malfoy’s life,” Ron tried to wave her off.

“It’s not his life I’m worried about.”

“No need to fear for a measly little auror’s life. That isn’t your style,” Ron jabbed, hating the giddy feeling that had risen in his chest.

She bit her lip before clarifying, “I mean, that they are far more likely to manipulate you into doing their bidding before they kill you. The Kiss are just as well known for their cunning tactics as their violence. They frame lies as misunderstandings and control as care. They may be the ones at fault but somehow, you’ll end up apologizing. Then, they drain your blood.”

Ron swallowed the lump in his throat, she didn’t paint a nice picture for the evening ahead of him, “How do you know this? Lucius Malfoy is the only one to have access to The Kiss in recent decades.”

Pansy smirked, “They are often compared to the pureblood Mothers of high society. Cunning, ruthless, and out for blood. I know all the manipulation tactics.”

Maybe it was impulsive. Maybe it was endangering a citizen. Maybe he couldn’t bear parting from her after the little show she’d put on to learn his identity. Maybe he was falling right into her play. But he couldn’t help himself when he said, “Do you have any dinner plans?”

 

—

 

Ron had a number of preconceived notions about a Vampyre den. None of them matched the bustling tube station in the London Underground.

Pansy’s heels clicked and echoed on the stone. Yes, he had practically begged her to wear a pair of trainers. She’d looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

He wore one of Malfoy’s finer sets of robes — Pansy’s choice, to compliment her gown — and he forced himself into the Malfoy mindset that might actually get them out alive. If Pansy was right, which was healthy to assume, then he was in for an evening of matching wits. Not the brute strength or dueling that he was used to. In the short hour they had before departing, they planned the meeting. Pansy would do as much of the talking as possible. She knew how to speak between the lines. Ron would be there, ever the surly and mysterious Draco Malfoy. He would listen and pay attention to the room as best he could. Any clues that could lead them to the exact killer or potential aurors involved with them. Ron shuddered to think of the implications.

The tube hurtled past, slightly crowded with the evening’s last commuters. Ron had been in the London Underground a few times with Harry and Hermione over the years, but it never failed to surprise him. Pansy seemed similarly flummoxed, pausing every now and again to stare at a particularly neon advert or overly loud muggles with their friends.

Malfoy had begrudgingly given Ron the instructions to enter the Den through their shared notebooks. “Use it wisely, prick,” was written neatly at the top of the page. It was knowledge that was apparently passed down through generations of the wealthy, pureblood Malfoys who made it their business to interact with The Kiss. The only knowledge passed down in Ron’s family was how to change someone’s hair color via hexed cupcake and the spell for infinitesimal nail growth because who wanted to deal with toenail clippings?

After the tube passed, they had four minutes to follow it through the tunnel until the next was scheduled to arrive. They hurried down to the tracks, where Ron helped lift Pansy to earth. They were careful not to touch anything that might electrocute them. Ron ran his hand along the wall as they went, feeling for the handle that Malfoy had assured him was there.

“What color hair do you have?” Pansy whispered from behind him.

“Huh?” Ron paused when he thought he felt it, but it had only been a collection of wires bulging from the wall.

“When you aren’t Draco, what hair color do you have?”

Ron rolled his eyes, “I’m not answering that.”

“Ahha! So you admit that your hair is a defining feature of your identity?”

“It’s a defining feature of everyone’s identities, isn’t it?”

He could hear Pansy roll her eyes in her response, “Plenty of men have brown or blond hair. Many blend right into a crowd, their hair never given a second thought. Unless, you want me to think you have notable hair. In which case, you probably do have boring brown or bathwater blond. What a shame, I hoped you’d be interesting.”

Ron fought the urge to stop and argue with her. They didn’t have the time.

“Did we pass it?” Pansy asked, a notable shift in her tone, as they felt the rumbling tracks below them. He ignored her, picking up his pace.

“Shit shit shit” Ron could see his shadow elongating with the nearing headlight from a train. Not good. This was not bloody good.

“Malfoy said —” Ron’s hand caught just then, “Thank Merlin.”

He opened the well-hidden door, grabbing Pansy by the waist to push her ahead of him, all before the speeding train blew his hair off his neck.

With the door shut firmly behind them, the new tunnel was pitch black. He could hardly see Pansy a few inches in front of him.

“Is this right?” She pressed back, her spine aligning with his chest. He may have been mistaken, but she felt like she was quivering against him. The thought of Pansy Parkinson frightened of anything had Ron casting about for something to distract her.

He used one hand to feel the wall again, using the other to grip hers. “Say I have bathwater blond hair. Does that narrow down your suspicions of my identity?”

A faint drip kept a rhythm as they began their trek. He led her through the tunnel, fighting the urge to pull out his wand to lighten the way. The Kiss gave Lucius strict instructions to use no magic in their den. Something about sensitivities. Ron had sensitivities to bloodsucking. But here he was.

“If I were to believe you, then yes.” He wondered if he could hear the smile in her voice or if it was his imagination. “What color eyes do you have?”

Ron wasn’t sure if he should lie. The groan of the walls and a light dust of cement fell on them when another train passed behind them. It covered his hesitation nicely. “Blue.”

Best to keep things simple.

Ron pretended not to feel the rat clamber across his feet. He had a feeling Pansy would take kindly to that.

“Favorite class at Hogwarts?”

He paused for a moment, “Is that helpful to your investigation?”

“It says a lot about a person. Mine, for example, was Transfiguration. It required precision and knowledge of advanced theory. Not everyone is good at it and I liked to excel.”

Ron nodded even though she probably couldn’t see him. From what he knew, it made perfect sense. “Mine was Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“That’s an auror response,” she said, her voice wavering when she stumbled over a rock in their path.

“I’m an auror.”

“As you’ve said many times. Defense class was required for your career. I’m sure you were good at dueling, as were a lot of students our age, out of necessity.”

Ron tried to ignore more dust falling, but when Pansy slipped her hand in his, he was grateful for the distraction.

She went on, not waiting for a response, “I bet I could guess your actual favorite.”

“With knowing only that I have blond hair and blue eyes?”

Pansy chuckled a bit, “I know a bit more than that. For example, you’re probably a Gryffindor because of some ill-advised bravery leading you to become an auror. Although, with the choices you’ve made in the last few days, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were Hufflepuff.”

“I am a big softie,” he hedged.

“You mentioned hating Potions, being awful at Transfiguration, and falling asleep in Divination. You’re a good dueler and quite strategic. You’re quick to laugh and notice everything that is going on in a room.”

They’d reached the end of the tunnel and now stood chest to chest. He could hardly make out the outline of her face, but he knew she was staring up at him. She’d learned quite a bit about him without him even realizing.

“And that leads you to conclude…” he whispered in the limited space between them.

“Care of Magical Creatures. Hands-on lessons, no theory, and Hagrid didn’t make us do long essays.”

Ron swallowed. He would have to be far more careful with what information he shared with her. A small part of him thrashed at this. He almost wanted her to figure it out.

“Do you remember the plan?”

He felt her nod.

“Alright. Follow my lead.”

He pushed his shoulder into the wall, a ray of light peaking through the small crack he made. He was suddenly overcome with a splitting headache — one that made him see stars, even in the relative darkness.

Narcissa Malfoy stood above him (when had he fallen to the ground?) and reached a hand out to help him up.

“Come Draco, the elves have prepared our lunch.”

Ron felt queasy. This wasn’t right. Narcissa looked different from how she had the other day. Her hair didn’t have the grey streaks, and was let down in long waves down her shoulders rather than up in a bun. He felt himself reach for her hand, warm and inviting, and a feeling of comfort washed through him. But it was just then that he felt the scene change. He was in the Slytherin common room. It wasn’t much different from what he saw second year. His head was in Pansy’s lap and she was stroking her long fingers through his hair. It felt nice, but he was still tense. He had a bone deep wariness. Even with Pansy’s comfort, Ron felt like there was no hope.

“Wake up! Wake up!” Pansy’s soothing words had turned manic. Her hands shook him. Ron felt himself come to in the tunnel, but part of him was still in the common room. He still felt the desperation and anxiety coursing through him.

Pansy was whispering frantically to him,“Whatever your name is, you have to pull it together right now.”

The Vampyres. The den. It was there in his head, but only vaguely.

“His memories…” was all he could get out.

Her eyes were wide and pleading, “Whose? What are you talking about?”

“I’m stuck in his memories.”

Ron thought he said it, but couldn’t be sure, before he felt himself pulled away. He tried to fight, he knew Pansy was there and needed him.

“Friends?” he felt himself say, his hand extended out to Harry in Madam Malkin’s shop.

“Get unstuck, I think someone is coming.” Pansy’s harried voice cut through the memory.

Ron felt loopy and his mouth tasted like dust. Hopefully that was the end of it. He hoisted himself off the mildewy ground and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He tried to remember what Malfoy had said about the memory merges he’d had. He definitely hadn’t told Ron they’d make him feel like utter shit. Although, Malfoy had just been almost blasted to bits by Neville.

“Are you okay?” Pansy was breathing heavy and gripping his arm tightly.

Ron didn’t get a chance to answer, the door that he’d started on was opening of its own accord. He tried to brace himself, but was still frozen in place when the oversized Vampyre towered over them.

“The Madam has been waiting for you,” The Vampyre said, his tone brokering no argument. He was huge. Larger, even, than most Vampyres, Ron thought. Ron did not come into contact with Vampyres but from what he read, this one was just as pale as one might expect. He turned and started down the dimly lit hallway, clearly expecting Ron and Pansy to follow.

Pansy gave him a frantic glance which Ron tried to ignore. He swallowed nervously before clasping her hand and pulling her up alongside him.

He could be normal. Nothing weird was happening in his head. It definitely wasn’t physically splitting in half and drowning him with another man’s memories.

They followed the Vampyre without speaking while the hallway twisted and turned. Torches flickered to light their path. Pansy’s heels clicked with each step and Ron fought to hide his wince. Stealth would be impossible tonight.

The hallway spilled out into a deep cavernous space, of which they stood on the balcony. Ron’s training had him scanning the room (large, haunted looking, dark), taking stock of the exits (only the hallway behind them was obvious), and counting the Vampyres (three couples dancing on the stone, four playing in an orchestra, five milling about with drinks, three standing guard equally spaced around the room, and one sitting in a throne). Three dozen bats had their claws deep in the cave’s ceiling.

Ron felt his mind slipping and squeezed Pansy’s hand in panic. This was quite possibly the worst time to be out of his own brain. He was suddenly staring at a crowd of Hogwarts students in the Great Hall. He felt excited, eager for whatever was to come. Ron felt the familiar hat placed on his head. It yelled Slytherin, hardly even touching his hair. The tables clapped and cheered and Ron felt himself release whatever anxiety he’d held up to that moment. He could write his father. He could make him proud.

He was walking down the stairs to the den’s main room. Ron felt like he could be sick. It was almost like apparating. Being squeezed from one memory to the next and back to real life. He just hoped splinching wasn’t a possibility.

“Young Mr. Malfoy,” the Vampyre on the throne said. Her voice was smooth as silk and had Ron’s hackles raising. She had long brown hair that was pin straight and reaching down to the middle of her torso. She was practically translucent, her pale skin reflecting the dim torch lights. Based on how Malfoy had described her, Ron knew this was Madam d’Aubermort, the Queen of The Kiss. She was over 500 years old at this point, but no one knew her exact age, or dared ask. “How lovely of you to join us. And you brought a friend.”

“The pleasure is mine.” Ron thanked Merlin for keeping his voice even and normal. He just hoped his face was the easy nonchalance that he had seen Malfoy sport in school. “This is Pansy Parkinson. She’s been begging me for a night on the town.”

The Vampyre laughed, “Ms. Parkinson, we know your family. Although, that must have been three generations ago, now.”

Ron fought a shudder. Old hag.

Pansy chuckled, she sounded so rich and noble with just her laugh. “Madame d’Aubemort, thank you for letting us join you in your fabulous home. I must say, Draco was quite surprised to receive your note. It is such an honor to be connected with such…timelessness.

D’Aubemort stood from her throne and gestured to the hulking Vampyre who led them there. “Ivan?”

He was at her side with a tray of three goblets before Ron could finish blinking. Ron could guess what was inside. He felt his palms go sweaty.

“How is your father doing? Nasty business with the Dark Lord, that was,” She said, washing it down with a hearty gulp of blood.

Ron supposed the comment about his father was meant to upset him with the way that Pansy tensed at his side. But Ron couldn’t find it in himself to care for the prick in prison. And he couldn’t be bothered to pretend when his head felt like it might explode any minute.

“That’s what happens when you align yourself with the wrong side,” Ron said.

D’Aubemort blinked, apparently taken off guard by his bluntness.

Pansy slid in with ease, though Ron could feel her hand shaking just a bit in his, “With the climate being as it is in the Wizarding World, one must be careful about one’s associations.”

Ron hated when people spoke in codes. He was never meant to be a Slytherin. Apparently, d’Aubemort understood Pansy’s meaning because she replied, “I knew he was in over his head with that association, as you say. I couldn’t deny to Lucius that the promises the Dark Lord made weren’t alluring. But I always think it's best to stay out of wars above ground.”

Until the bodies were littered on the field and Vampyres could rise from their dens to suck them dry. Ron wanted to curl his lips at the creature before him.

D’Aubemort went on, oblivious to the hatred roiling in Ron’s gut, “We’ve been feeling cut off since your father’s imprisonment. Just because we are out of sight doesn’t mean we intend to be ignored.”

Pansy smiled, “I highly doubt anyone has ever ignored you, Madame.

D’Aubemort’s lips stretched into a wicked grin. Her teeth were stained red. “Quite right, my girl. What I mean to say is that we are used to a seat at the table. With Lucius’s absence, we’ve been feeling quite left out.”

Lucius stood in d’Aubemort’s place in front of Ron. He tried to blink the memory away, but Lucius gripped his shoulder with strong fingers.

“Don’t let that Mudblood beat you in class. You’ve been raised in the best Wizarding family since Merlin himself. Don’t let her steal it.”

Ron clenched his jaw. If only Lucius were actually here, so that he could punch him square in the jaw.

“Have the murders been meant to get attention from the above ground, then?” Ron knew it was tactless the moment he said it. He almost couldn’t help it. Between the heavy, dust-filled air and the cracking in his skull, Ron was at the very end of his patience.

Pansy cleared her throat, “What Draco means is you’ve gotten quite the reaction from the Ministry aurors recently.”

Madame d’Aubemort narrowed her eyes, “We aren’t looking for attention or reactions from silly little humans. We have nothing to do with these ridiculous murders.”

Ron scanned her face carefully. Everything in her body language said she was telling the truth. Ron felt Pansy beside him, on her way to coming to the same conclusion.

D’Aubemort smiled and tilted her head, “I’ve made our guests uncomfortable. They should feel more welcome.”

She gestured to the Vampyres in the room and the orchestra picked up the beat of their waltz. “We dance!”

She offered her pale fingers to Ron, who fumbled a moment before Pansy surreptitiously elbowed him in the side. He led the Madam to the open swath of floor where the others danced, the music grim even in its new pace. From the corner of his eye, he watched a Vampyre spin Pansy onto the floor. He supposed if d’Aubemort was to be believed, he should feel safer in her presence. Even if Ron did believe her (the jury was still out), he assumed he was still her number one choice for a snack.

D’Aubemort was a tall woman, rising to just above Malfoy’s height, making the dance a touch awkward. Ron had never truly mastered the dances after the Yule Ball 4th year, but he had a passing understanding of how to look like he knew what he was doing.

He was more worried for what he might say without Pansy to smooth things over after him.

Ron pasted on a slick smile, “Care to share what you know?”

D’Aubemort chuckled, “I am curious how we might be of service to one another.”

Ron turned her about the cave, trying desperately not to step on her toes and also look like he wasn’t trying desperately, “I won’t work with Vampyres who kill muggles for sport.”

“You’re different than I imagined,” She said, as he spun her lightly, “More forward than your father. I promise you, these murders do not come from my den. We are all accounted for.”

“They leave your calling card.” Ron felt dizzy, like another of Malfoy’s memories would come at any second.

She rolled her eyes, “Anyone could.”

“Especially if they wanted to frame the most notorious den in Great Britain,” Ron couldn’t think straight, sweat beading at his temple as he kept the memories at bay.

“I am sure the aurors never even considered it,” d’Aubemort sneered. “We have no envoy. No one to tell them that it was not our doing. I called you here to make them see reason. The aurors are looking in the wrong direction.”

Ron saw no hint of a lie, though he supposed someone with 500 years of living had a good poker face. “If you’re lying, the aurors will blame me.”

“We will just have to trust each other, then.”

He swallowed, unsure what to believe. He’d only just decided to trust Malfoy. Opening his trust to yet another pale, unhumorous, creature was not something Ron planned for.

“I will speak to the aurors,” Ron said, an errant memory of crowded quidditch stands briefly clouding his vision. “Do you have any evidence that you were not involved? Any idea who it was, or why they are blaming you?”

D’Aubemort pursed her lips.

Ron looked at her pleadingly, “They won’t believe me if I don’t have something to give them.”

“I have a theory,” her steps didn’t falter even as she paused to assess his trustworthiness. “Your killer is not one of us.”

“So you’ve mentioned.”

She shook her head, “No. Your killer is not a Vampyre at all.”

Ron stopped their dance, looking at her with what he knew was a threatening Malfoy stare, “How could you say that? The blood, the bites, the signature? Not to mention the fight this week — one of my friends was almost killed in that fight.”

Ron would wait until later to dissect his use of the term ‘friend.’

“Your silly aurors started that fight. We are allowed our nighttime hunt. If they had stopped to assess the situation, they might have found we were not out of bounds,” d’Aubemort was practically hissing her reply. Ron felt the hair on the back of his neck stick up.

Could he and Harry have been so far off? Was it truly a wizard this whole time? He was standing in front of a tall black cabinet. His hands were shaking as he tapped his wand to various sections of the wood. It had to work. It had to.

Ron shook his head to rid himself of the memory. His stomach turned over and he felt sick with what felt like decade old guilt.

He stepped back from d’Aubemort, taking her hand to lay a kiss on her knuckles. “I will relay your message to the ministry. I am not in great favor with them at this time and I cannot promise good reactions. I will do my best to make your theories and innocence known.”

D’Aubemort looked pleased. Pansy, apparently having seen them stop dancing, made her way to his side.

“I want something in return,” He said, holding her gaze.

“We have plenty of funds in the coffers,” she said, waving him away.

“No,” he replied, Pansy squeezed his arm. “Your word.”

D’Aubemort stared at him.

“Your word that this was not you or your clan. That you will do everything in your power to help with the investigation. That you will tell me if you know something.”

“You are far different than I expected,” She murmured. “You have my word.”

Ron wanted to exhale in relief. Staring down a dangerous creature was not for the faint of heart. Instead, he held out his arm so that Pansy could slip hers through it. He led her to the exit, deliberately giving the Vampyres their backs to prove his trust.

They made it only to the other side of the door, stone firmly in place when he collapsed to his knees

“What the fuck is happening? What did she say?” Pansy tried to help him back to standing but was too weak to even keep his shoulders lifted. She knelt beside him, her dress puddling in the dirt.

“I can’t hold them back,” He whispered to her. It was too painful, too many memories flooding his brain. Was this all of Malfoy’s memories? Would he get every single one of them and be lost in the man’s head forever?

Pansy gripped his face in her hands, forcing him to stare at her. “Just stay in this moment with me.”

Ron squeezed his eyes shut. He saw Malfoy Manor, the grounds extended off the back of a large balcony. Peacocks pecking their way across the grass. He saw the emerald green of his bed hangings. He saw himself in the mirror, tying a silver tie.

He groaned.

“I can’t tell who I am.”

“I don’t know.” Pansy was shaking her head, “I don’t know who you are. But I know you aren’t him. You aren’t Draco. You are kind and funny and strong. You like Fire Taffy and Cauldron Cakes and sausages. You can’t prepare food for shit and you don’t like fancy robes. And you’re a damn good auror.”

Ron leaned into her. Her voice was familiar but he couldn’t tell why. Her forehead was warm and grounding.

And then she kissed him. Her lips pushed against his and he felt the bottom drop out of the tunnel.

It was the first time they’d kissed. But it was also the hundredth. He was hit with a wave of memories and Ron was kissing Pansy in all of them. And then he physically felt himself fall back into the present moment. Kneeling on the stone floor, mildew on the walls, Pansy in his arms. It was like the sky was clearing. Ron’s head no longer felt like it was splitting in two.

Ron deepened the kiss, needing more and chasing the high of being back in his own head.

He passed out just moments later.