The Polyjuice Problem

Harry had made a lot of questionable decisions in his life.

Drinking a mysterious experimental Polyjuice Potion in the middle of the Ministry’s Potions Division?

Yeah. This was probably up there.

“You do realize this is a terrible idea, don’t you?” he muttered, arms crossed as he eyed the bubbling cauldron before him. The liquid inside was thick and pearlescent, shifting between silver and gold, like someone had bottled liquid moonlight. It looked beautiful. Which only made Harry more suspicious.

Draco Malfoy stood opposite him, looking bored as he examined his nails. “Speak for yourself, Potter. I have absolute faith in the competence of the Ministry.”

Harry snorted. “Oh, now you trust the Ministry?”

Malfoy smirked, finally lifting his gaze. “Trust? Hardly. But if something were to go wrong, at least I’d have the pleasure of watching you suffer.”

Harry sighed. He really should have expected that.

“Gentlemen,” came a voice from their left. The lead researcher, a no-nonsense woman named Agatha Prewett, looked between them with all the enthusiasm of someone who had been dealing with far too many petty arguments that day. “We don’t have all morning. The potion is stable. We’ve tested it on lesser subjects—”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean by ‘lesser subjects’?”

A nearby assistant coughed. “Erm. Rats. A few… Kneazles.”

Harry shot Malfoy a look. “Oh, fantastic. We’re about to drink a potion that’s only been tested on cats.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Well, I, for one, am thrilled to know that if I spontaneously sprout whiskers, at least I’ll have excellent fur.”

Harry groaned.

“We assure you,” Agatha said, rubbing her temples, “that this is perfectly safe. It’s a new iteration of Polyjuice Potion, one that doesn’t require hair or DNA. Instead, it simply requires magical proximity to another person, meaning it will ‘map’ onto the nearest available signature.”

Malfoy hummed, tilting his head in mild interest. “Fascinating. So, it reads magical signatures rather than biological components? That would certainly eliminate the taste issue.”

“Exactly,” Agatha said, pleased that someone understood the process.

Harry, however, frowned. “Wait—so it ‘maps’ onto someone nearby? How do we know we’ll transform into each other and not, say, the guy making tea in the break room?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Agatha said, waving a hand. “You two have been in close magical contact for years. Your signatures are practically intertwined. It will default to the strongest link.”

Harry blinked. That sounded… unnecessarily ominous.

Malfoy’s expression twitched, his lips pursing as if suppressing a thought. Then he turned to Harry and smirked. “You hear that, Potter? We’re intertwined.”

Harry groaned again. “Let’s just get this over with.”

With that, he grabbed the vial from the table and downed it in one go.

Across from him, Malfoy did the same.

For a moment, everything was fine.

Then—

The world lurched.

Harry’s stomach twisted violently, as if some unseen force had grabbed hold of his entire being and was pulling him inside out. He had experienced some awful magical sensations before—Portkeys, Apparition splinches, the Cruciatus Curse—but this felt different. This felt like being folded into himself like paper, like his very bones were being rewritten.

He gasped, hands grasping at nothing, the air heavy around him—

And then, as quickly as it had begun, it stopped.

Harry staggered forward, blinking rapidly as his vision settled. The room swam for a moment before snapping back into clarity. He inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling, his heart pounding in his ears. Something felt... wrong.

The air against his skin felt different. His center of balance was off.

And then—

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

Harry froze.

Because he hadn’t spoken.

He had heard those words, clear as day, but the voice—

That voice belonged to Draco Malfoy.

Slowly, very slowly, Harry looked down.

His hands.

They were long and elegant, the fingers slightly thinner than he remembered.

Too pale.

Harry’s stomach dropped. His fingers flew to his hair—soft, silky strands of platinum blonde.

No. No no no no no—

Across the room, Malfoy—in Harry’s body—was patting himself down frantically, eyes wide with absolute horror.

The researcher made a choking sound. “Oh dear.”

Malfoy whipped his head up. “POTTER, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?”

Harry barely had time to respond before the sheer absurdity of the situation crashed down on him like a Bludger to the face.

“Brilliant,” he muttered, rubbing his temples—only to stop short at the feeling of Malfoy’s cheekbones. “Just brilliant.”

“This is temporary, right?”

Harry was sitting at a Ministry desk—well, Malfoy’s body was sitting at the desk, but it was definitely him in there. Across from him, Malfoy (in Harry’s body) was pacing like a caged Kneazle, his movements twitchy and sharp. It was deeply unnerving to watch himself gesticulate so dramatically.

Agatha Prewett winced. “Erm. Theoretically, yes.”

Malfoy—Harry?—froze. “Theoretically?”

“Well, in most cases—”

“What do you mean most?”

“The potion should wear off within a week.”

“A week?” Harry groaned, slumping back in the chair. “You mean I’m stuck looking like this for an entire—”

He gestured vaguely at himself.

Malfoy scowled. “Oh, don’t even start, Potter. You think I want to wake up every morning looking like I’ve just rolled out of bed and tumbled through a wardrobe full of Weasley hand-me-downs?”

“Oi,” Harry said, scowling. “There’s nothing wrong with my clothes.”

Malfoy arched an eyebrow. In his body. Which made it ten times worse. “Potter, you own exactly two pairs of jeans and neither of them fit properly.”

Harry scowled harder. “Like you’re one to talk. Who the hell needs three different moisturizers?”

“I take care of myself.” Malfoy sniffed. “Something you clearly need help with, given the state of your entire existence.”

Harry groaned. “This is going to be a long week.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Tell me about it.”

They had no idea just how chaotic it was about to become.

Because, as they would soon discover…

Absolutely no one knew they had switched bodies.

And the wizarding world?

Well.

They were about to lose their minds.

Draco blinked in the dim light of Harry’s flat, taking a moment to absorb the sight. His—Harry’s—hands shook slightly as he ran them through his newly messy, unkempt hair. Not that he could blame them; it wasn’t every day that you woke up to find your body was no longer your own. He had woken up just a few hours ago in Harry’s bed—his body still uncooperative, his mind a blur—and had barely managed to drag himself into some semblance of functionality before Harry had vanished to the bathroom.

Being Harry Potter was disorienting enough, but now, standing in the midst of the chaos that was Harry's flat, Draco couldn't help but feel… completely revolted. Was this how he lived? It was like walking into a disaster zone, where everything was muted, uninspired, and haphazardly thrown together. Draco—no, Harry—was used to luxury. He had never considered himself a slob, but this was something else entirely.

He stepped cautiously into the small living room, looking around at the furniture that felt more like something you’d find at a Muggle thrift store than anywhere suitable for a wizard of Harry’s stature. There was that sagging brown couch, the fraying armchair stuffed into a corner, and those half-empty shelves. Were those even books? Draco squinted at the spines, unable to recognize a single title, and then cursed under his breath.

The worst part, however, was the clothes.

Draco’s eyes twitched toward the pile of them—the scattered jacket, the trainers just left in the hallway as if the person wearing them had casually decided they didn’t care about basic tidiness. But worse still was the wardrobe. And it wasn’t just because it was Harry’s wardrobe, though that was bad enough. No, it was because these were clothes that didn’t belong anywhere, let alone on someone with the fame of Harry Potter. These were... Weasley jumpers. Each one worse than the last, like a collection of horrific knitted monstrosities.

Is this what Potter considers “clothes?”

Draco groaned inwardly. In his own body, he had been meticulously groomed and dressed in the finest tailored robes, but here, in Harry’s body, everything felt wrong—wrong to wear, wrong to look at. How had Harry not been embarrassed to be seen in these atrocities?

It was then, as he was silently ranting to himself, that he heard Harry’s voice from the hallway. His—Draco’s—jaw clenched.

“Alright,” Harry’s voice echoed from behind, “I’m going to shower. Try not to hex anything while I’m gone.”

Draco’s nostrils flared. Hex something? Oh, no. Oh, no. Harry—he—had no idea what he was about to unleash.

Draco stood at the threshold of the bedroom, staring at the wardrobe, still in disbelief. As much as he wanted to scream in frustration, his instinct told him he’d best keep his cool for now. After all, Harry was still going to have to deal with this later—he would fix this, no matter what it took.

He couldn’t help it. His hand reached out and grabbed the first of the hideous jumpers—one that looked like it had been knitted from the literal worst part of a sheep—holding it up to the light like some kind of ancient relic. He was already crafting his response when Harry appeared beside him, still damp from the shower, his damp towel slung casually over one shoulder, clearly unaffected by the horror that was his wardrobe.

“What?” Harry asked, looking from the jumper to Draco’s face with mild confusion, as if Draco wasn’t in the process of suffering an existential crisis.

Draco’s hand shook as he held it out to Harry. “What do you mean, ‘what?’” He repeated, voice too high, too tight. He felt his Harry body getting in the way as his own self-righteous indignation boiled up. What a mess, he thought, as he pointed at the jumper. “This! This, Potter—is a crime against fashion. Against taste. How could you let—"

“Relax, Malfoy,” Harry said with a nonchalant shrug, his smirk clearly returning, even as he looked over at Draco with amusement dancing in his eyes. “It’s just a jumper.”

“Just a jumper?” Draco echoed incredulously. “Potter, no amount of ‘just a’ is going to make this thing acceptable.”

Harry shrugged again, clearly not fully understanding the depth of Draco's absolute distress. "You don't need to get so worked up over it. It's warm."

Draco clenched his fists. “Warm?” he said, eyes narrowing. “Warm? You wear this?” He shook the jumper in front of him, as though it were going to magically change into something that didn’t give Draco a headache.

Harry, of course, didn’t seem to get it, which, Draco thought bitterly, was no surprise. "You’re hopeless," he muttered, but with Harry's body, his voice sounded just a touch more unhinged than it ever had in his own form.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Harry grinned, clearly too entertained by the scene to be of any real help. "What are you gonna do about it?”

A devilish grin spread across Draco's face as he looked over at Harry, fully aware of the absurdity of the situation. Harry was, after all, still Harry, in all of his messy glory. Draco, on the other hand, was Draco Malfoy—a man with style, a man with taste. A man who could fix this. But first, Draco needed to do what he did best.

“Fix this? Oh, Potter, I’m not just going to fix it,” Draco said with a cold laugh. “I’m going to rebuild you. From the ground up. By the time I’m done with you, your own reflection will be shocked to see the transformation.”

Harry, still completely unaware of the impending disaster, just smirked. "Alright, Malfoy. We’ll see about that."

And Draco, for all his exasperation, couldn't help but feel a flicker of satisfaction. This was his moment. Potter’s fall from grace was going to be the best project of Draco’s life.

Draco blinked, the words echoing in his head. “Shower? In my body?”

The full weight of what Harry had just said slowly began to sink in. It wasn't just the horrendous wardrobe that was now his responsibility—it was everything. He was in Harry Potter’s body. Potter’s body. And Harry had just casually mentioned the shower as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

Draco’s stomach did a peculiar flip. It was one thing to be in Potter’s shoes, walking around in his skin, but the idea of Harry Potter, with all his lack of style and apparent disregard for personal hygiene, in his body… Draco shuddered involuntarily. He could almost feel the warm water of the shower lapping at his skin, the rough texture of Potter’s hair under the spray, the whole disorienting sensation of being Harry.

As if his thoughts weren't already scrambled enough, he was now painfully aware of his new, mismatched appearance. He tried to ignore the fact that he looked more disheveled than he ever would’ve in his own form—his hair tousled, his clothes slightly too big, the entire body feeling unfamiliar and awkward. He didn’t do awkward. Draco Malfoy never did awkward.

“Are you alright, Malfoy?” Harry asked again, his voice a bit more concerned now, though still tinged with amusement.

Draco slowly turned, eyes wide with genuine confusion and no small amount of disbelief. “Am I alright?” he echoed, his tone rising higher than he would’ve liked. He looked down at himself, then back at Harry with a sharp smirk, his gaze deliberately raking over Harry’s form—the very body that was now his to occupy for who knew how long. “You think I’m alright?” Draco repeated, his lips curling into something close to a sneer.

Harry gave him a raised eyebrow. “You’re the one standing there all weird. I’m the one who should be asking you that.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, but a dark chuckle escaped his lips. “Potter, do you even realize what you just said?” He took a step closer, letting the full weight of the situation hang between them like an oppressive fog. He couldn’t help himself. His curiosity got the better of him. He had to ask, had to know how this felt. “You’re telling me,” Draco began, his voice lowering to a teasing drawl, “that you’re about to shower in my body?”

Harry hesitated for a moment, clearly not understanding what Draco was implying, before his brow furrowed in confusion. “Uh, yeah? What’s the big deal?”

Draco threw his hands up in exasperation. “The big deal? Potter, do you realize the absolute disaster that is about to happen?”

The realization hit him like a Bludger to the face: He could feel it—Harry’s body, those small, stupid little movements Harry made without thinking, all the ways his muscles reacted differently to simple tasks. He’d have to scrub his—Harry’s—skin, his body, the entire thing… All of it, now.

And Draco felt an unwelcome heat begin to rise in his chest. He forced himself to ignore it. He was not about to let himself get caught up in thoughts of Harry Potter’s—no. He was Draco Malfoy, a paragon of restraint, of cool calculation.

But still.

There was something about the idea of using Harry’s body so intimately that made his mind race. He had only just begun to adjust to the physicality of this form—the way his (no, Harry’s) legs moved under him, the slight weight of the muscles in the arms, the chest that felt slightly broader than his own. Harry was taller than him—something Draco had always begrudgingly known but had never felt until now.

"Honestly, Potter, have you ever considered what happens when someone showers in your body?" Draco continued, now fully aware of his own mounting amusement. “I’m going to have to scrub every inch of you—every inch—until you don’t smell like you’ve been wearing these horrendous clothes for a decade.”

Harry snorted. “If you’re so bothered by it, just go take a walk or something. I don’t care about the details of your showering process.”

Draco tilted his head, eyeing Harry’s—his—body, clearly enjoying the game. “Oh, I’m not bothered. I’m just fascinated. You really think you’re going to be able to live with this body for even a day, let alone… whatever this weird situation is?”

Harry shifted his stance awkwardly, clearly not sure whether Draco was trying to tease him or genuinely have a breakdown in his borrowed body. “It’s not that big of a deal. I’ll be back in a bit. Just try not to mess anything up.”

“Oh, I’ll mess everything up,” Draco muttered darkly, though a part of him was almost too fascinated by the situation to mind. In Harry’s body, Draco felt entirely untethered from his usual sense of decorum, like he could push all the boundaries of what was acceptable in a way he never could as himself.

“Shower,” Draco murmured again to himself, almost in disbelief. He had known he’d be forced into this body for a while, but the very notion of living in Harry Potter’s skin, of experiencing everything Harry did from the inside out, made him feel like he’d crossed a line. He was trapped, yes, but there was a strange thrill buried beneath it all—this wasn’t just some temporary inconvenience. This was an opportunity.

Potter was a mess—an absolute mess—and Draco, with Harry’s face and form, was about to have a very up-close, very personal experience with everything that made Harry Potter... well, Harry Potter.

A sigh escaped Draco’s lips as he pushed a hand through Harry’s unruly hair. There was no way out of it now. He could only pretend to be Harry for so long before the inevitable happened. And when it did, Draco would make sure that by the time they swapped back, Harry would never want to step foot in a shower again.

The water rushed over Harry’s body—Draco's body—and for a brief, surreal moment, he let himself just feel the sensation. The warm water soaked through his hair, down his back, and Harry felt the strange disconnection between his mind and his movements. Everything felt off. Draco's body was lean, defined in ways Harry wasn’t used to. Even the way the water hit his skin felt different.

He rubbed shampoo into his hair, trying to ignore the weirdness of it all. The sleekness of the strands. The way they didn’t rebel against him, like his own wild mess of dark hair always did. He felt the faintest twinge of envy. Draco’s hair, unlike his own, fell perfectly into place. No frizz. No random cowlicks. The shampoo slid through the soft locks easily, and Harry had to resist the urge to linger.

The whole experience made him feel so oddly... refined. And Harry hated it. It was almost like Draco’s body was too good for him. Too perfect, in a way that didn’t fit. Draco was always the picture of control, but Harry? Harry was the chaotic one. He didn’t need this level of care—didn’t need to be so... polished.

He rinsed the shampoo from his hair, the water running down his back in rivers, the subtle weight of his muscles beneath the surface making him uncomfortably aware of just how differently Draco’s body moved.

When he finished, he stepped out of the shower, taking a moment to stare at himself in the mirror. His—Draco’s—reflection seemed to mock him, the perfect posture, the carefully tailored lines of Draco’s face. He knew his own face was a bit disheveled from the chaos of the day, but Draco’s seemed... effortless. Too effortless. And now, standing in his own flat—Harry’s flat—this body felt like an alien shell. It didn’t belong here.

He ran a towel through his damp hair and wrapped another around his waist, thinking about what came next. The flat. It was small. Too small. And nothing about it felt like Draco belonged here. This wasn’t his space.

And where was Draco right now?

Harry grabbed his wand from where he had left it on the counter and tossed it lightly in his hand as he walked out of the bathroom, leaving the steamy warmth behind. He wasn’t sure what he expected when he walked back into the main room. Draco was probably waiting for him, standing there in that judgmental, always-holding-something-back way, but... when Harry stepped into the living room, it was just as quiet and still as before.

The flat still felt empty.

Draco wasn’t there.

The realization hit Harry harder than it should have. After everything, after the strange body swap and the bizarre shower, here he was in Draco Malfoy’s body—alone in Harry’s flat.

There was no sign of Draco’s arrogance. No sense of the well-groomed, well-maintained persona. The place felt different without Draco’s presence, like the absence of a familiar shadow. A weight that always hovered in the air, even when Draco wasn't physically there. Now it was just Harry, in Draco's body, standing in the middle of the room.

And the flat? Well, it was still as depressing as before. No surprise there. But Harry could feel the difference now. It felt... wrong.

He stared around, unsure whether he should sit on the couch or just pace. The mismatched furniture, the old worn-out books, the odd collection of picture frames—everything that had made Harry’s place his felt strangely more alien now that he was inhabiting Draco's body. It was as if he couldn’t escape this odd divide between the two lives. He reached out, mindlessly touching one of the picture frames on the bookshelf.

It was tilted, just like Draco would’ve left it. Perfectly imperfect. It almost made Harry smirk. Of course, Draco would have no time for things like perfect alignment—but he also wouldn’t leave it this crooked.

Just as Harry turned around, his eyes landing on the clutter of clothing thrown across the room—the jacket on the chair, the trainers left in the hallway—he heard a sound from behind him. The faintest footsteps approaching.

And there was Draco, stepping back into the room, now dressed in what Harry could only describe as a horrible outfit. Harry blinked, staring at the mismatched pieces of clothing Draco was wearing: too-tight jeans that clung awkwardly to his frame and a shirt that definitely wasn’t something he’d ever choose.

"What the hell are you wearing?" Harry asked, genuinely shocked.

Draco—Harry, in Harry’s body, paused, raising an eyebrow with his characteristic indifference. “What? Is there a problem with my fashion choices?” He gave Harry a challenging look, smirking.

Harry didn’t have an immediate answer. Instead, his mind was already forming an idea—how could he possibly fix this? He was stuck in Draco’s body, after all, and Draco was about to go back to his own house, to his own space, where everything wouldn’t be so foreign. But here? At Harry’s flat? Harry was still trying to figure out how to make this his.

“You’re supposed to go back to your place,” Harry grumbled, his irritation rising again. The entire situation felt like a chaotic mess he couldn’t escape from, but there was something strangely... familiar about the way Draco was looking at him. It was as if Harry had become the problem. It was his body that was the issue now.

Draco—Harry—gave him a look that Harry couldn't quite read, then shrugged. “I guess I will. But you’re coming with me.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Draco—his own body—cut him off with a casual gesture. “It’ll be fine. You can handle it for a while.”

Harry shot him a narrow-eyed glance. “Yeah? You think I’m going to waltz into your perfect little Malfoy mansion and beyou?”

Draco gave him that irritating grin. “No. But you’re going to try, Potter. It’s the least you can do. And maybe you’ll finally understand what it’s like to be me for a change.”

Malfoy Manor was cold and silent, its grandeur only accentuated by the looming absence of Narcissa, who was away at a meeting with her sister, Andromeda. Harry—Draco Malfoy—felt the weight of the Manor’s cold walls pressing down on him, each step echoing in the cavernous hallways. Every painting he passed seemed to scrutinize him, as though they already knew he didn’t belong here.

"Alright, Potter, are you listening?" Draco—in Harry’s body—stood with arms crossed in front of him, a smirk curling on his lips as he observed Harry, trying to adjust to his new, very different persona.

Harry was standing stiffly, trying to take it all in. His posture felt foreign—too upright, too formal—but Draco’s words had started to make sense. “Yeah, I’m listening,” he muttered, though it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself.

“Good,” Draco said, eyeing him critically. "First, let’s get this straight—you’re me now. You’ve been me your entire life. So, act like it. No slouching, no fidgeting. Stand tall. Look at yourself in the mirror and remember that you’re the heir to the Malfoy name. You own this place."

Harry shot a quick look at the grand mirror hanging on the wall. In it, he saw Draco’s tall, refined frame staring back. He tried to mimic the posture, straightening his back and holding his chin up, but it felt unnatural.

“Better,” Draco said, giving him an appraising glance. “Now, let’s talk about how you’re going to interact with people. My mother will be back soon, so you need to be ready. Don’t let your guard down, Potter. She’ll know something’s off if you start acting like yourself.”

Harry nodded but could already feel his nerves rising. Narcissa Malfoy had an air of sophistication and authority that made Harry feel more than a little uneasy. "What should I do when she gets here?"

Draco smirked, clearly enjoying the role reversal. “When she gets here, you’ll speak to her like you always do. Be respectful, formal, but not too stiff. Malfoys don’t do stiff—that’s what your lot does. You’re the Malfoy heir, and she’ll expect you to act like it. Nod when she talks, listen, don’t interrupt, and don’t get distracted by… well, anything.” He raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Especially if you see anything you think is too amusing.”

Harry looked at him, confused. "What are you talking about?"

Draco’s smile deepened, clearly enjoying the discomfort. “You’ll figure it out. And if you don’t, just follow my lead. You’ve been with me enough times to understand how I move through this house, how I hold conversations, how I deal with people. You can do this. No one will suspect anything.”

"Yeah, sure," Harry replied, though he wasn’t convinced. The idea of fooling Narcissa Malfoy was terrifying. The woman could see right through a lie.

“And,” Draco continued, as if reading his thoughts, “if she asks you anything personal or something that might make you uncomfortable, just give a vague answer. Keep it mysterious. Don’t give too much away. If anyone questions you about anything—about the war, about your past, about anything—just tell them that it’s not worth discussing. You don’t oweanyone answers. You’re Draco Malfoy. You don’t need to explain yourself.”

Harry nodded again, swallowing hard. He wasn’t sure how well he’d pull this off, but he didn’t have much choice.

“Also,” Draco added, smirking, “if you want to be really convincing, when you’re speaking to my mother or any of the house-elves, throw in a few Malfoy-isms. Like, ‘You should be grateful to serve me,’ or something like that. Trust me, it works.”

Harry frowned. "That doesn’t feel right, Draco."

“It’s how we do things, Potter,” Draco retorted with a raised eyebrow. “And don’t look too uncomfortable about it. If you do, she’ll see right through it. Fake it ‘til you make it, alright?”

“Fine,” Harry said, feeling his skin prickle as he tried to imagine himself speaking in Draco’s usual haughty manner. It felt wrong in every possible way, but there was no turning back now.

Draco stepped closer, a small but approving smile on his face. "You’re going to be fine. Remember, you’re not just pretending to be me—you’re me. My mannerisms, my tone, my arrogance. You’ve seen me enough times to know how I operate."

Harry inhaled slowly, nodding once more. “Right. I’ll do my best. I just... don’t know if I can pull this off. I don’t know how you do this every day.”

Draco clapped Harry’s shoulder in mock camaraderie. “It’s a lot of work, but you’ll get used to it. Just don’t act like a Potter in my house, or we’ll be having a very different conversation.”

Harry winced, the reminder of his true identity making him even more anxious. But Draco was already turning to leave, his footsteps echoing in the vast hallway.

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” Draco called over his shoulder, his tone lighter now. “When I get back, you’d better be convincingly me. Understand?”

Harry nodded, his chest tightening. “Understood.”

With that, Draco—still in Harry’s body—headed for the door, leaving Harry alone in the grand, empty house. The weight of pretending to be Draco Malfoy was pressing down on him more than ever now that he was completely alone.

As the door clicked shut behind Draco, Harry exhaled sharply, trying to calm the nerves that were threatening to overwhelm him. He had to get this right. There was no other option.

The heavy door to the entrance of Malfoy Manor closed softly behind Harry, and the silence in the vast, empty halls seemed to swallow him whole. For a moment, he just stood there, listening to the echo of his own breathing, the weight of the house pressing in around him. The soft sound of his boots clicking against the polished marble floors was the only thing that broke the stillness.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but standing here alone felt different from what he imagined. There was something unsettling about the space—its cold elegance, the way every piece of furniture and every painting seemed perfectly placed, almost too perfect. Every corner of the manor seemed to have been curated with intention. Even the air felt like it had been shaped by years of aristocratic presence, thick with old-world charm and history.

Harry sighed softly and began to walk, unsure of where to start. His footsteps echoed as he moved down the long corridor, the walls lined with intricate, gold-framed portraits of Malfoys past—some stern, some smiling faintly, but all of them staring at him with the same disapproving gaze that Draco always seemed to carry.

He reached the first room on his left, a study, and pushed the door open cautiously. The scent of old books hit him immediately—an oddly comforting smell that grounded him for a moment. The study was large, with high, dark wood shelves stacked with books that had probably never been touched by anyone except a Malfoy. A grand desk sat by the window, the chair positioned just right so that whoever sat there could look out over the estate, as if ruling over it all. The sunlight streamed in, casting long shadows across the room, and for a moment, Harry felt like he could sit at the desk and pretend to be Draco Malfoy—a man who had everything.

But that thought didn’t last long. Harry glanced around, his eyes drawn to a particular section of the bookshelf. He walked over and ran his fingers over the spines of the books, most of them old and leather-bound. At the far end, one book caught his eye—a thick, dark-red tome with gold embossing. Harry pulled it from the shelf, wondering if it was something Draco would keep hidden. His curiosity got the better of him, and he flipped it open, scanning the pages filled with handwritten notes and cryptic symbols.

"Dark Arts," he muttered under his breath, recognizing a few symbols. His stomach tightened. It was an unsettling reminder of Draco's past—of the family he had been born into. As much as he didn’t want to acknowledge it, there was a part of Harry that understood the temptation of it all. But he quickly shoved the book back onto the shelf, shaking off the thoughts.

With a deep breath, Harry backed away from the desk and left the study. He wasn’t here to delve into dark magic—he was here to survive pretending to be Draco Malfoy. He didn’t need to get distracted by things that weren’t his concern.

He continued down the hallway, passing grand doors with elaborate silver handles and tall, narrow windows that framed the perfectly manicured garden outside. The manor felt empty in a way that was suffocating, like an echo of something lost. Harry wondered what it would be like if Narcissa were here—how different the house would feel, if there were more life to it than just these walls.

Curiosity led him to the grand staircase at the center of the manor. It spiraled upward, the black marble steps shining beneath him, bordered by brass railings that gleamed even in the dim light of the house. Harry hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should head back to the sitting room, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed to see more.

As he ascended the stairs, the silence grew thicker, and the portraits along the walls seemed to stare at him more intensely. He imagined them whispering amongst themselves, as if they could sense something was wrong. Harry shook his head, trying to shake off the feeling of being watched.

At the top of the stairs, the corridor split off in two directions—one leading toward the master bedroom, the other to a few smaller rooms. Harry instinctively turned left and found himself in front of a door that, from the outside, looked ordinary enough. But when he opened it, his eyes widened.

The room was luxurious, and yet, it felt almost untouched. It was Draco’s room, and there was no doubt about it. Rich velvet curtains in deep green draped the windows, blocking out the harsh sunlight. A king-sized four-poster bed dominated the center of the room, its dark wood frame intricately carved with designs Harry didn’t recognize. The bedspread was made of the finest material, embroidered with silver threads that shimmered faintly in the light.

Harry couldn’t stop himself from walking toward it. He ran his fingers lightly over the fabric, careful not to disturb the delicate stitches. He was in Draco Malfoy’s private sanctuary—an intimate space that felt like it held too many secrets, too many layers of the person Draco had become.

He noticed the vanity on the far side of the room, a large mirror framed by intricate carvings of silver and gold. As he approached, he caught a glimpse of himself—Draco Malfoy, his reflection startling him for a second. The sharp angles of Draco’s face seemed exaggerated when compared to his own features. But now, wearing his body, everything felt distorted. The reflection staring back at him felt unfamiliar. For a moment, he had to look away.

His gaze drifted to the side, where a large wardrobe stood. He knew he couldn’t open it—he wasn’t Draco, and he certainly wasn’t about to try on Draco’s clothes. But his eyes lingered on the intricate carvings of the wardrobe’s doors, the designs woven into the wood with fine precision. This room was a reflection of everything Draco stood for—a life built on wealth, power, and bloodlines.

But as Harry turned to leave, he caught sight of something that made his breath catch in his throat—a small, silver picture frame on the nightstand beside the bed. He picked it up cautiously, his heart beating faster in his chest. It was a photograph of Draco with his parents. Narcissa and Lucius. Draco, much younger in the picture, was smiling in a way Harry hadn’t seen in years—his eyes soft, unguarded. It was strange, seeing this different version of Draco, so human and normal, in such an intimate moment.

Harry set the frame down carefully, almost as though he feared breaking it, and stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do next. The silence of the room felt overwhelming now—like the manor itself was holding its breath, waiting for him to slip up.

The quiet of Malfoy Manor shattered with the soft but unmistakable sound of the front doors opening. Harry froze, his grip tightening around the silver picture frame before he realized he was still holding it. His pulse kicked up, hammering against his ribs as the distant sound of heels clicking against the marble floor echoed through the grand halls.

She’s back.

Narcissa Malfoy had returned.

A wave of panic rolled over him, cold and suffocating. He had been standing in Draco’s bedroom for too long, letting himself get lost in the eerie silence of the manor. He wasn’t ready for this. He had barely begun wrapping his head around pretending to be Draco in a house that felt more like a museum than a home. And now—now he had to act as if he belonged here.

Harry forced himself to move, quickly setting the picture frame back onto the nightstand with careful precision, as if he hadn’t just been staring at it like an intruder. His palms were clammy. His breathing felt too fast. He could hear the rustle of robes, the way the footsteps slowed as they reached the upper floor. He swallowed hard and turned toward the door just as Narcissa appeared in the doorway.

She looked almost exactly as he remembered from their last encounter at the manor—tall, poised, and impossibly elegant. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a flawless twist, her robes an understated shade of deep blue, accentuating the sharp, regal angles of her face. The only thing different now was that she was looking at him—and expecting to see her son.

Harry straightened instinctively, forcing his face into something he hoped looked like calm indifference, like Draco Malfoy. He felt the tension coil in his spine as she took him in, her cool, assessing gaze sweeping over him with that quiet, unreadable intensity she carried so well.

For one terrible second, he thought she knew.

Then, her lips curved faintly—an almost-smile, but not quite.

“Draco.” Her voice was smooth, pleasant, but with that underlying sharpness that suggested she never missed a single detail. “I wasn’t expecting you to be upstairs. I assumed you’d be in the drawing room.”

Harry swallowed and forced himself to shrug. “Thought I’d—” Shit, Malfoy wouldn’t say ‘thought I’d’— “I was just—” No, too hesitant. “I wanted some quiet.”

The words felt stiff in his mouth, and he had no idea if they sounded remotely convincing. But Narcissa only gave a small nod, as if this explanation made perfect sense.

“Of course.” She stepped further into the room, her gaze flicking briefly to the picture frame on the nightstand—the one Harry had just been holding. He tensed, fighting the instinct to fidget, to move, to do something. But she said nothing of it.

Instead, she sighed lightly, brushing an invisible speck of dust from her sleeve before glancing back at him.

“I assume your father has written to you?”

Harry felt the blood drain from his face.

Lucius. Right. Lucius Malfoy is still in Azkaban. And he writes letters. To Draco. Because of course he does.

Harry knew he needed to answer—needed to respond like Draco would—but his mind felt blank. The weight of her gaze pressed down on him, and for a second, all he could think about was how completely out of place he was here.

Then, he did the only thing he could think of. He sniffed lightly and rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mother.”

Narcissa’s lips twitched, her expression somewhere between fond and exasperated. “And?”

Harry hesitated—just a fraction of a second too long. He could feel the slip, the moment of uncertainty. He scrambled for something—anything—that sounded right.

“Same as always,” he muttered, waving a hand vaguely. “Complaints about the Ministry, how the food is atrocious, something about legal proceedings. You know how he is.”

A tense pause. Then, Narcissa let out a soft breath, shaking her head. “Yes, I do.”

Harry nearly sagged with relief, but he caught himself just in time.

She stepped toward him, resting a delicate hand on his arm. Her touch was light but firm, grounding in a way that made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

“I hope you’ve been keeping yourself busy while I was away.” There was a quiet expectation in her voice, something that made Harry’s nerves buzz unpleasantly.

He forced a smirk. “Always.”

It seemed to satisfy her enough, because she withdrew her hand and straightened, smoothing out an invisible wrinkle in her robes.

“You’re expected at dinner in a few hours,” she informed him. “I’ve already had the elves begin preparing, but I trust you’ll be dressed appropriately.”

Harry nearly winced. Dressed appropriately? He had no idea what Draco wore to these things. Would his usual black robes be enough? Was there some kind of ridiculous, embroidered pureblood heir ensemble he was supposed to wear?

He kept his expression neutral and nodded. “Obviously.”

Narcissa studied him for a moment longer, then gave a graceful incline of her head.

“Good. I’ll see you then.”

She turned to leave, her movements fluid and precise, but before she reached the door, she paused.

“Oh,” she said, without turning around. “And do try to remember that your posture reflects our family name. You’ve been slouching since I walked in.”

Harry stiffened.

With that, she swept out of the room, her presence disappearing down the hall as swiftly as she had arrived.

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Merlin’s bloody beard.

He stumbled back, collapsing onto the edge of Draco’s bed, running a hand through his Malfoy-blond hair. That had been—a lot.

He had barely survived that conversation.

And now, he had dinner to worry about.

Great.

Draco, now in Harry’s body, stepped into the flat and closed the door behind him with a quiet click. The space was still as underwhelming as it had been earlier—if not worse now that he had the chance to fully take it in.

He let out a slow breath, raking a hand through Potter’s unruly hair, wincing when it flopped stubbornly back into place. Of course it does. He exhaled sharply through his nose and turned his attention to his new surroundings.

The flat was offensively small. That much he had already gathered. But now that he was alone, with nothing but the hum of the city beyond the windows and the faint ticking of a clock from Merlin-knows-where, he had the distinct urge to understand it.

Because this was Potter’s home.

And Potter’s home was… sad.

Draco took slow steps around the living room, arms crossed, a frown etched onto his face. The sagging brown couch was somehow even worse up close—worn, lumpy, and covered in a fabric so rough he could practically feel it just by looking at it. It faced the fireplace, which was barely more than a decorative feature in a Muggle building that didn’t even use Floo powder. A small, battered coffee table sat in front of the couch, bearing several rings from cups and a few scattered items: a stray quill, a piece of parchment with some half-scribbled notes, and—Merlin help him—an Auror report.

Draco picked it up, scanning the parchment. The words blurred slightly—too much Auror jargon, references he didn’t fully grasp. But it was undeniably Potter’s handwriting in the margins, scribbled in a way that suggested he had been half-distracted, probably reading by dim light.

Draco set it back down carefully and moved on.

The bookshelf against the wall was half-empty, as he had noted earlier, but now he inspected the titles more closely. Some were standard wizarding texts—books on defensive magic, obscure curses, and historical accounts of the last war. Others were shockingly Muggle—things Draco had never even heard of, with battered spines and faded covers. A few had dog-eared pages.

Draco snorted softly. Potter dog-ears books. Of course he does.

His fingers drifted along the shelves before landing on a picture frame shoved to the side. He lifted it, tilting it to the dim light.

It was a photograph of Potter, Weasley, and Granger, taken in what looked like the Burrow’s backyard. Weasley had his arm slung lazily around Potter’s shoulder, Granger was mid-laugh, and Potter—Harry—looked relaxed, genuinely happy. It was strange, seeing himself in the photo, frozen in a moment Draco had obviously never lived.

He put the frame back, a strange weight settling in his chest.

The flat was cluttered but not in a deliberate way. More like someone who had never really learned how to live in a space. There were signs of life—mismatched socks abandoned in a corner, a half-full mug on the counter—but it all felt… unfinished. Like Potter had moved in but never truly settled.

Draco shook his head and moved toward the hallway, past the discarded jacket, past the trainers he had already judged once today, and into the bedroom.

The sight made him grimace all over again.

The bed was unmade—of course it was—sheets rumpled, pillow slightly askew. Clothes were draped over the back of a chair rather than neatly folded away. The wardrobe was still open from earlier, a reminder of the absolute tragedy that was Potter’s fashion sense.

Draco wandered over, eyeing the offensive garments again. He pulled out a shirt, wrinkling his nose.

Honestly, how has he survived like this?

He dropped it back onto the shelf and turned his attention to the bedside table. A wand—Potter’s wand—rested there, along with a small stack of books and a crumpled bit of parchment. He smoothed it out, scanning the contents.

It was a note. From Weasley.

Oi, stop skipping meals, you absolute git. If you don’t come to dinner at least once this week, Hermione will hex you and I won’t stop her.

Draco blinked.

He set the note down, swallowing an odd lump in his throat.

The air in the room felt heavier now, and he wasn’t entirely sure why.

This flat—this life—was not what he had expected of Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, the Ministry’s Golden Auror. It was small, unremarkable, and cluttered in a way that suggested exhaustion rather than carelessness.

Draco stepped back, exhaling sharply, rolling his shoulders.

Draco paused in the hallway, leaning against the cool stone wall as he considered his next move. He’d spent the past hour exploring Potter’s flat and—much to his chagrin—had learned that his temporary host’s hygiene habits were as disorganized as every other aspect of his life. The note from Weasley, the mismatched clothes, even the state of the bed had all left him with one undeniable conclusion: a shower was necessary. Not because he enjoyed cleaning himself—he was Draco Malfoy, after all—but because if he was to convincingly inhabit Harry’s body, he needed to at least attempt basic self-care.

He closed his eyes for a moment, steeling himself. I must do this, he thought with a resigned sigh. If I’m going to masquerade as Potter for any length of time, I can’t let him smell like the common dormitories he’s used to. I have to at least appear... presentable. His mind raced through the possibilities, mentally preparing himself to face the worst of Potter’s grooming habits.

Reluctantly, he pushed open the creaking door to the bathroom. Before he even reached the shower, he hesitated, gathering his courage. A small part of him—one that still carried a shred of his own pride—told him to brace himself for the inevitable shock of what lay in store. With a deep, measured breath, Draco stepped over the threshold, determined not to let his eyes wander downward.

He told himself, Don’t look, don’t let yourself see what you’re about to endure. And yet, the anticipation was enough to make his stomach churn. He knew that within moments, he’d have to confront every disconcerting detail of Harry Potter’s life, starting with the tiny, poorly designed shower that was about to become his unwelcome stage.

Draco exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his—Potter’s—face as he stood in the bathroom, staring at the shower like it was some kind of medieval torture device. The space was impossibly small, the tiled walls slightly cracked in places, and the showerhead looked like it hadn’t been replaced in at least a decade.

Merlin.

Still, he had already resigned himself to this. He had to try and maintain some semblance of hygiene while stuck in this situation, and considering he was currently in Potter’s body, that meant washing Potter’s body.

Which meant… undressing.

Draco scowled. No, not scowled—glared.

He reached for the hem of the shirt and hesitated.

You are Draco Malfoy, he reminded himself. You have poise, you have control, you will not be undone by something as basic as a shower.

With a bracing inhale, he yanked the shirt over his head in one quick motion, purposefully avoiding his reflection in the small, slightly smudged mirror above the sink. He did not need to see Potter’s body like this. He wasn’t even looking, not really—he was just going through the motions. Efficient. Mechanical. This was just another unfortunate side effect of this ridiculous situation.

The trousers were next. He undid them with quick, jerky movements, shoving them down before stepping out of them, and—

Oh.

Oh, no.

Absolutely not.

Draco stared resolutely at the ceiling, pretending he wasn’t suddenly and violently aware of the fact that he was completely naked in Potter’s body.

This was an entirely new level of distress. It wasn’t just that he was unclothed—it was the wrong body being unclothed. His arms felt different. His legs felt different. His everything felt different.

And he would not look down.

Nope.

Instead, he turned sharply toward the shower, wrenched the handle, and stepped in, letting the hot water blast over him before his brain could even register what was happening.

The first thing he noticed—besides the sheer relief of not being faced with the full horror of Potter’s anatomy—was that the water pressure was atrocious.

Draco let out an aggravated groan as the lukewarm stream dribbled over his—Potter’s—skin, barely enough to be satisfying. “Are you kidding me?” he muttered, running his hands through the wet mess of Potter’s hair, as if that would somehow fix the tragic state of his life.

He fumbled for whatever soaps Potter had—only to recoil when he got a whiff of them.

Merlin’s pants, was that cheap sandalwood? What kind of mediocre, drugstore-quality soap was this?

Draco held the bottle between two fingers as if it were something diseased, then sighed dramatically and squeezed some into his hands. It would have to do. He scrubbed quickly, efficiently, all the while focusing very intently on the tiles in front of him. He washed his hair with equally ruthless precision, barely tolerating the low-quality shampoo before rinsing it out and cursing under his breath when the water took forever to get the suds out.

After what felt like an eternity, he shut off the water and stepped out, shivering as the cool air of the flat hit his skin. He snatched a towel—Merlin, it was rough, had Potter never heard of proper fabric?—and wrapped it tightly around himself, finally allowing himself to breathe.

That had been… horrible.

But at least it was done.

Draco closed his eyes for a moment, centering himself. You survived, Malfoy. You did not die in Potter’s pitiful excuse for a shower. You are fine.

Then he cracked one eye open and caught sight of himself in the mirror.

And immediately groaned.

Because now he was faced with Harry Potter, dripping wet, hair an even bigger disaster than usual, wrapped in a towel and looking as though he had just fought off some sort of existential crisis.

Which, to be fair, he had.

“Perfect,” Draco muttered to his reflection, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just perfect.”

Harry had survived the afternoon at Malfoy Manor by the skin of his teeth. He had explored, wandered, and done his best to not accidentally set off any ancient curses or insult any sentient furniture (because that seemed like the sort of thing the Malfoys would have). And now—now, he was facing dinner with Narcissa Malfoy.

He had spent a solid five minutes staring at himself in a gilded mirror before leaving his borrowed bedroom, coaching himself in the most Draco-like expressions he could manage. Smirking? Check. A carefully raised eyebrow? Check. An air of casual, effortless superiority? Absolutely not—but he was trying his best.

So when he entered the dining room and saw Narcissa already seated at the long, elegantly set table, he squared his shoulders, inhaled sharply, and strode forward with what he hoped was the confidence of a man who belonged there.

“Mother,” he said smoothly, nodding in greeting as he took his seat.

“Draco,” Narcissa replied, her sharp eyes scanning his face as if searching for something. “You’re late.”

Harry froze for half a second before remembering—Malfoys were always composed. Unbothered. He exhaled slowly through his nose and forced a smirk. “Fashionably, of course.”

Narcissa gave a delicate sigh, but there was the faintest twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth. Harry nearly slumped in relief but caught himself just in time.

The first course appeared—house-elves working silently, efficiently—and Harry took his cue from Narcissa, picking up his utensils in what he hoped was the proper refined Malfoy manner. The food was probably amazing, but he was too focused on not messing up to actually taste any of it.

They ate in silence for a while before Narcissa finally spoke again. “I imagine you had quite the interesting day,” she said lightly, swirling her wine. “Considering your assignment.”

Harry, who had just taken a sip of water, nearly choked. Assignment? Oh, Merlin. He forced himself to swallow, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin in what he hoped was an elegant, composed manner. “Ah. Yes,” he said, aiming for vague but knowing.

Narcissa arched a perfectly sculpted brow. “And?”

Harry thought very quickly. “It was… tolerable.” He flicked his gaze downward, sneering slightly for effect. “As much as time spent with him could be, anyway.”

Narcissa hummed, clearly expecting more. “The Ministry seems quite insistent on keeping you involved in anything related to Potter these days.” She took a sip of her wine before adding, “I trust he wasn’t too much of a headache?”

Harry very nearly burst out laughing at the irony of it.

Oh, you have no idea, Mrs. Malfoy.

Instead, he let out an exaggerated sigh, leaning back slightly in his chair. “When is he not a headache?” he drawled, rolling his eyes.

That, apparently, was exactly the right thing to say. Narcissa let out a quiet, amused hum. “Yes, I imagine so.”

Encouraged, Harry leaned into it, channeling every exasperated rant he’d ever heard from Draco over the years. “Honestly, it’s like he goes out of his way to be insufferable. The hair, the lack of proper decorum—Merlin, the clothes. It’s offensive, really.”

Narcissa chuckled softly, and Harry could hardly believe it. He was doing it. He was convincingly pretending to be Draco Malfoy at dinner with his own mother.

He allowed himself to relax—just a little—as the conversation shifted to other topics. He nodded along when necessary, made noncommittal noises at the right moments, and, overall, did his very best to maintain his Draco Malfoyness.

Narcissa studied him over the rim of her wine glass, her expression perfectly neutral, but there was something too keen in her gaze. Harry resisted the urge to shift in his chair. Malfoys didn’t fidget.

“I take it he wasn’t particularly cooperative?” she asked, setting her glass down with a quiet clink.

Harry, who had absolutely no idea what exactly he and Potter—well, Draco as Potter—had supposedly been working on that day, had to tread carefully. He tilted his head, lips curling into a sneer. “Oh, you know how he is. Always so self-righteous,” he drawled, making sure to inject as much disdain as possible. “Thinks he’s clever when really he just stumbles his way through things, hoping for the best.”

Narcissa’s lips twitched—just the barest hint of amusement, but Harry caught it. Encouraged, he continued.

“And the way he dresses, Mother, it’s actually offensive,” he went on, shaking his head as if discussing something truly tragic. “I don’t know how anyone can take him seriously when he looks like he fell into a second-hand bargain bin and decided to stay there.”

That, at last, got a small chuckle from Narcissa. “Yes, well. Potter’s lack of refinement has never been in question,” she said, delicately spearing a piece of roasted vegetable with her fork. “But despite that, you are expected to continue working with him.”

Harry barely stopped himself from stiffening. Continue? Working with him?

Narcissa must have mistaken his hesitation for distaste, because she sighed, dabbing at her lips with her napkin. “I know it’s frustrating, Draco, but you mustn’t let your personal grievances get in the way. You’ve managed to be professional thus far, haven’t you?”

Harry, scrambling for an appropriate response, made a show of rolling his eyes. “Barely,” he muttered, stabbing his food with a little more force than necessary. “It’s exhausting, Mother. Do you know how loud he is? And he never stops talking.”

Narcissa actually laughed, a soft, quiet sound, but it was there. Harry nearly sagged in relief. He was selling this.

“I imagine that would be rather difficult for you,” she said, a knowing glint in her eye. “But regardless of how insufferable he may be, it’s important that you keep up appearances. You know how valuable these Ministry connections are, especially in your position.”

Harry didn’t actually know what “his” position was, but he nodded as if he did. “Of course, Mother,” he said smoothly, doing his best impression of a Malfoy being dutiful. “I always keep up appearances.”

Narcissa gave him a long, measuring look, her blue eyes sharp in a way that made Harry’s stomach twist. Then, seemingly satisfied, she nodded.

“I trust that you do,” she said lightly, then took another sip of her wine. “Speaking of which, you’re expected at dinner with the Rosiers next week. And there’s the Selwyn gala on Friday—you’ll attend, of course.”

Harry did not like the sound of that.

Still, he forced himself to smirk, hoping to Merlin it looked natural. “Obviously,” he said. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

He had no idea how he was going to pull this off.

Draco woke up with the distinct feeling that something was very wrong.

His bed felt strange—too soft, too lumpy in places, and the sheets smelled nothing like the expensive, subtly enchanted Egyptian cotton he was used to. Instead, they carried the faint scent of something vaguely herbal, like cheap soap and Potter.

And then there was the pillow. The awful, pathetic excuse for a pillow that provided zero support, leaving his neck at an unforgivable angle.

He groaned, shifting slightly, and immediately froze. His limbs felt off—heavier, as if the balance of his entire body had been thrown into disarray.

Then, all at once, it crashed down on him.

The potion. The swap. Potter.

Draco’s eyes snapped open, but instead of seeing the familiar elegant ceiling of his bedroom at the Manor, he was greeted with a disaster of a room.

Potter’s room.

The walls were bare, the furniture was painfully plain, and clothes were scattered haphazardly across the floor. The nightstand beside him was cluttered with crumpled bits of parchment, a wand he technically wasn’t supposed to be using, and an ugly pair of glasses—

Draco squeezed his eyes shut. Right. The glasses. His glasses now.

His stomach twisted uncomfortably. He felt foreign in his own skin—or rather, Potter’s skin. The way his chest rose and fell, the unfamiliar weight of the body he now inhabited—it was all wrong.

A sharp knock at the door nearly made him leap out of bed.

“Oi, Harry, you up?”

Weasley.

Draco’s heart stopped.

Oh, Merlin. He had to act normal. He had to act like Potter.

“Harry?” Another knock. This time, a different voice—Granger. “Ron and I are making breakfast. You coming?”

Draco frantically wiped a hand over his face, then regretted it instantly when he felt the shape of Potter’s features beneath his fingers. His hair—Potter’s hair—fell into his eyes, messy and untamable as always.

He swallowed hard, willing his voice to sound normal—whatever normal was for Potter. “Uh—yeah. Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.”

Silence. Then a hesitant, “You okay?” from Granger.

Draco forced a lazy, Potter-like response. “M’fine.”

A pause. Then, thankfully, footsteps retreating down the hall.

Draco collapsed back against the pillows, exhaling shakily.

Merlin’s bloody beard.

This was going to be a nightmare.

Draco dragged himself out of bed—Potter’s bed—and forced himself to get dressed without thinking too much about the fact that he was shoving his arms into Potter’s clothes. (They were horrible. Every last one of them.)

When he finally made his way to the kitchen, he found Weasley and Granger sitting at the small table, mugs in hand, breakfast already set out.

Granger glanced up first, brow furrowing as she looked him over. “You look terrible.”

Draco barely resisted the urge to sneer. “Charming.”

Weasley snorted. “You slept like crap, didn’t you?”

Draco hesitated. Was Potter a bad sleeper? Did he snore? Toss and turn?

He shrugged, keeping it vague. “Something like that.” He slid into a chair, eyeing the two of them warily. “So, not that I’m not thrilled by your company first thing in the morning, but what exactly are you doing here?”

Weasley and Granger exchanged a look.

“You haven’t been around much the past few days,” Granger said carefully, studying him like he was a particularly difficult Arithmancy equation. “We were starting to worry.”

Draco blinked. “What? I mean—why?”

“Because you vanished,” Weasley said, frowning. “You’ve barely responded to our owls, and when you do write back, you’re all weird and vague.”

Draco immediately straightened. “I am not weird.”

Weasley gave him a look. “Mate, you literally signed off one of your letters with ‘Do not bother me with trivialities unless it’s a matter of life or death.’”

Draco opened his mouth, then closed it. That did sound exactly like something he would say.

Granger folded her arms. “Harry, what’s going on with you?”

Shit.

Draco realized, belatedly, that he was sitting too straight—too formal—like he was back at the Manor and not slouched over in the way Potter always seemed to be. He quickly forced himself to lean back, throwing one arm over the chair in what he hoped was a convincing display of casual Potter-ness.

“Nothing’s going on,” he said, attempting a dismissive tone. “I’ve just been… busy.”

Granger narrowed her eyes. “Busy with what?”

Draco cast about for a plausible answer. “Ministry things.”

Weasley raised an eyebrow. “What things?”

Draco groaned. “Bloody hell, Weasley, must you pry into every aspect of my life?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Granger blinked. “…What did you just say?”

Draco froze.

Weasley was staring at him, fork halfway to his mouth. “Did you just—?”

Draco coughed, scrambling to recover. “Uh—I mean—” He forced a laugh, waving a hand. “Just, you know, uh… been around Malfoy too much lately, haven’t I? Picking up his… ridiculous speech patterns.”

Granger did not look convinced.

Weasley frowned. “Yeah, I was actually gonna ask how that’s been going. You never talk about it.”

Draco stiffened. “Well, what’s there to talk about? Malfoy is—” He waved a vague, dismissive hand. “—Malfoy.”

Weasley snorted. “Yeah, that’s the problem, innit?”

Granger hummed, still eyeing him in that deeply uncomfortable, far too observant way of hers. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “Something still feels… off.”

Draco cleared his throat. “You’re imagining things.”

Granger didn’t look convinced.

Draco stuffed a piece of toast in his mouth to keep from saying something else suspicious.

This was going to be impossible.

Draco quickly swallowed the bite of toast, forcing himself to ignore the uncomfortable silence that had fallen over the table. The last thing he needed was Granger getting suspicious. His mind raced, desperately thinking of ways to brush off her pointed questions, but he had to stay calm—Potter was calm, after all.

He leaned back in the chair and gave them both an exaggerated, half-amused look, keeping his expression easy, as if this was all some trivial annoyance that was below his attention.

“You’re really going to accuse me of being weird for not writing back every five minutes, Granger?” he said, voice laced with a practiced arrogance. “I’ve got more important things to do than worry about your endless letters. Try notoverthinking everything, yeah?”

Granger’s gaze softened slightly, her eyebrows knitting together as if she wanted to push further. “Harry—”

“No,” Draco interrupted smoothly, raising a hand as if to ward her off, keeping his tone breezy and dismissive. “I’m fine. Just had some stuff to take care of. You wouldn’t understand.”

That was it. He could see her hesitating, chewing on the words she wanted to say, but—thankfully—she let it go.

Weasley, on the other hand, looked less convinced but shrugged. “Alright, if you say so. But you’re coming to the Burrow on Sunday, right? Mum’s been asking about you, and Dad’s made his famous treacle tart. You’d better not miss it again, mate.”

Draco froze. The Burrow?

He cursed inwardly. He should have known about this. Of course Potter would be invited to dinner at Weasley’s house. It was a bloody tradition at this point.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but caught himself just in time, forcing a relaxed smirk onto his face.

“Of course I’m coming,” he said, with as much nonchalance as he could muster. “Who would pass up a chance to sample Weasley’s awful cooking? Besides, I wouldn’t want to disappoint the family.”

Weasley’s eyes lit up with pride, clearly pleased by the remark. “Exactly! You know how Mum is—she’ll have a full spread for you. You’d better show up, or you’ll have her on your tail for weeks.”

Draco nodded, a slight, smug smile creeping up at the edges of his lips. “I’ll be there.”

Granger looked between them, still unconvinced, but her gaze softened slightly as she smiled faintly. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Draco nodded again, pretending to be completely casual about it, all while silently cursing himself for not having a better grasp of Potter’s life. The last thing he wanted was to get caught in a lie or reveal something he shouldn’t know. The Burrow. He’d have to make sure he did some serious research before that dinner.

“Alright, I’ll go get ready,” he said, pushing himself up from the table and trying to act like he had all the time in the world to handle whatever life threw at him. He shot them a final, mock-sincere look. “Thanks for breakfast, by the way. You can tell Mrs. Weasley I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

Weasley grinned. “Don’t worry, mate. Just don’t start any fights with my brothers, and we’ll be fine.”

Draco shot Granger a glance, but she was watching him, her expression unreadable. He stood a bit straighter, forcing himself to shrug it off.

“I’ll make no promises,” he said lightly, then headed toward the stairs, letting the conversation die down behind him.

As he goes to Potter’s room, his mind raced. The Burrow. He’d have to pretend to be Potter in front of an entire family. He couldn’t afford to slip up.

He’d have to get his act together—fast.

The conversation in the Ministry training room was starting to settle into its usual awkwardness. Harry, still in Draco’s body, gave Draco—his body—a sidelong glance, trying to read the expression on his face.

“So,” Harry began, his voice steady but his mind racing, “dinner with Narcissa went as expected. She didn’t suspect a thing.”

Draco, or Harry, smirked a little, leaning against one of the desks as he stretched. “I told you. Narcissa’s never been that great at reading people, especially when she wants to see what she expects to see. She was more concerned about the fact that I’d been busy with work lately than about anything else.”

Harry nodded, but there was still a tightness in his chest. “Yeah, that was easy enough. But Hermione...” His words faltered as he thought back to breakfast that morning, how Hermione had been watching him so closely. She knewsomething was off. It was only a matter of time before she figured out the truth.

“Did she say anything?” Harry asked, his voice dropping just enough so no one else could hear.

Draco let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. “She’s suspicious, but I don’t think she knows yet. She asked me if I was alright this morning, though. I had to play it off and act like everything was fine.”

Harry made a face. “You were fine, you say?” He couldn’t stop himself from adding a touch of sarcasm. “You were you, and I was pretending to be you.”

Draco raised an eyebrow at him. “And how did that go, exactly?”

Harry bit his lip, trying to hold back the frustration bubbling up. “I don’t know how you do it. Pretend to be so... normal. So Draco Malfoy.” He couldn’t help but glance at his own body as he said it. It was jarring, seeing Draco in his face, and even more jarring to think that Draco had been him just the night before.

“Honestly, Potter—” Draco started, but he was cut off when a coworker entered the room, pausing mid-step when they noticed the two of them.

"Oi," the coworker, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a strong jaw, eyed the pair suspiciously. "What’s going on here, then?"

Harry froze, his heart lurching in his chest. He’d been doing a decent job of hiding the fact that he wasn’t Draco, but now it was becoming more difficult to keep up the ruse. The man raised an eyebrow as he studied them both for a moment longer.

“You two are... awfully close this morning,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Did something happen? You two weren’t—" He gave them a knowing glance.

“Nothing happened,” Draco, in Harry’s body, said quickly, throwing Harry a look that conveyed both irritation and confusion.

Harry quickly recovered, trying to act natural. “We’re just having a conversation, that’s all,” he said smoothly, turning his attention to the man. “Is there a problem with that?”

The coworker didn’t seem entirely convinced but shrugged it off. “Alright, alright. Just don’t get too... comfortable,” he said, his eyes lingering on them for a moment longer before he walked away, muttering to himself.

Harry let out a breath of relief as the man finally left, shaking his head. “That was close.”

Draco nodded. “You’re telling me.”

A heavy silence settled between them for a moment before Harry spoke up again, his tone more serious. “Look, Draco—Draco—this is a lot. I can barely keep it together here, and now I have to go back to pretending to be you again, when you’ve already messed with everyone’s expectations.”

“I know,” Draco said, sounding more subdued than usual. “It’s a hell of a thing to be stuck in someone else’s life. But we don’t have a choice. We can’t let anyone figure out what’s going on.”

Harry’s mind was racing. It was hard to focus on anything else when he was constantly trying to keep his emotions in check, but there was something pressing that had been bothering him. He glanced over at Draco, his gaze sharp. “What about Hermione and Ron? What did they say at breakfast?”

Draco’s face shifted into something slightly more guarded. “Ron’s still the same old Ron, you know? Keeps talking about pointless things, doesn’t notice a damn thing. Hermione, though... She was looking at me funny this morning. Asked if everything was alright, just like she did last night.” He sighed, clearly frustrated. “I had to play it off. If she figures out that something’s off, it’ll be a disaster.”

“I don’t understand how you do it,” Harry muttered under his breath. “How do you manage to keep everyone so... convinced?”

Draco’s expression softened slightly. “I don’t know. I guess I just act like I’ve always done. I don’t make a big deal out of things. People believe what they want to believe, especially if you don’t give them a reason to doubt you.”

Harry thought about it for a moment. “I suppose. But it doesn’t make it any easier.” He glanced at Draco—his body—and sighed. “This is exhausting.”

“I know.” Draco’s voice was quieter now, almost empathetic. “But we’re in this together. Just don’t screw this up.”

Harry looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. “You mean you don’t screw it up, right? After all, I’m the one who’s pretending to be you. You’re the one who’s supposed to have it figured out.”

Draco chuckled softly. “Fair enough. But we both know how you work, Potter. This is just as much your mess as it is mine.”

Before Harry could retort, they were interrupted again. Their supervisor, a sharp-eyed woman with short black hair, appeared at the door.

“Alright, you two, time to get to practice,” she said briskly, her voice clipped. “We can’t waste any more time chatting. You’re on the clock now.”

Harry sighed inwardly, but he quickly straightened himself up. He was Draco for now, and he needed to act like it.

“Right,” Harry said, his voice firm, stepping away from Draco. “Let’s get this over with.”

Draco nodded in agreement. The two of them exchanged a final, meaningful look before they turned to leave, side by side, into the Ministry’s bustling training area.

Harry couldn’t help but feel the weight of the entire situation settle back onto his shoulders as they stepped into the room. They had to keep pretending. They had to keep lying. Because the longer they stayed in this twisted, magical body swap, the harder it would be to fix things. And now, with every passing moment, they were becoming more and more entrenched in their roles.

The cafeteria was filled with the usual noise of busy chatter as the workers rushed to grab their lunch before heading back to their duties. The clattering of plates, the hum of conversation, and the sounds of cutlery scraping against metal filled the air, but for Harry (in Draco’s body) and Draco (in Harry’s body), it felt like the world had quieted down.

They sat across from each other, the weight of their situation pressing down on them more than any of the work they’d been assigned. The cafeteria was always crowded, but today it felt more suffocating than usual. Harry kept his eyes on his food, not really eating, his mind racing in a thousand directions. His eyes occasionally flickered up to catch Draco, but they didn’t speak—at least not directly.

The murmurs from the nearby table, however, were hard to ignore.

"Did you hear?" came the voice of a young woman at the table to their right. "Malfoy’s been acting odd lately. Have you noticed it? He’s... different."

Harry stiffened at the mention of his own name, but Draco—sitting across from him—kept his gaze on his plate, his expression entirely neutral. The two exchanged a quick look—just a brief flash of their eyes meeting, and then quickly diverting back to whatever task seemed most pressing. But neither of them reacted aloud. The silent communication spoke volumes.

"Yeah, I noticed that too," a man added, with a frown. "He’s been hanging around Potter a lot more than usual. And not in the way he used to. It’s almost like... they’re friendly now? Like mates or something."

Another quick glance was exchanged between Harry and Draco. Harry couldn’t help but feel a pang of discomfort at hearing the words, but Draco gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod as if to say, We can handle this. Draco was better at keeping his composure, always so controlled, even when he was trying to play the part of someone else.

"Maybe it’s just a phase," the woman said, taking a bite of her sandwich, but still eyeing Draco—and Harry—across the room. "Who knows? The whole thing with his father must be weighing on him."

Harry’s stomach tightened at the mention of Draco's father, but Draco (as Harry) didn’t flinch, his face betraying nothing. The slightest twitch of an eyebrow was all that was needed to communicate that they were both aware of the conversation. The woman’s words were lingering too long for comfort, but Draco’s presence beside him seemed to reassure Harry that it wasn’t worth reacting to. They just needed to keep pretending.

Draco leaned back slightly in his chair, the posture relaxed but still somewhat guarded. His eyes flicked over to Harry for a fraction of a second, a silent message passing between them. Harry's lips twitched into a faint, forced smile, and they both turned their attention back to the table full of gossiping coworkers.

"So weird," the woman continued, not noticing the way both Draco and Harry were now fully tuned into her words, though neither of them gave anything away. "I’ve always thought Malfoy was... well, a bit stuck up. But lately, he seems different. Less... superior or whatever."

They didn’t need to say anything. Neither of them had to speak aloud to know what the other was thinking. Instead, they sat in near silence, pretending to be absorbed in their meals while the whispers about them continued. They could feel the curious stares and the unspoken questions floating through the air. But they didn’t react.

“Well, whatever it is, I hope it doesn’t last too long,” another voice chimed in, a man with dark hair. "I mean, Potter and Malfoy? It’s... bizarre."

The group of colleagues continued to speculate, speaking more quietly now, but the tension in the air was palpable. Harry could feel it pressing down on him—those unspoken questions, the unvoiced doubts. It was as if they were trapped in a web, silently eavesdropping on the world around them while trying not to give themselves away.

After a long pause, Draco—still in Harry's body—finally picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. He didn’t say a word. But the look he gave Harry—sharp, calculating, but with a hint of something else—spoke volumes. It was the same look he often gave when he was silently assessing a situation, a look that said we’ll get through this, just don’t break character.

Harry nodded, as subtly as possible, but the doubt in his mind didn’t fade. The group of coworkers had begun to disperse, but the whispering still lingered, a weight on his chest. The only thing that kept him going was the silent promise that they would both play their parts. As long as they did that, they could keep up the façade.

They finished their lunch in silence, not speaking to each other, but still sharing a quiet understanding. Their colleagues hadn’t caught onto anything just yet—but the longer they spent in these bodies, the more vulnerable they felt. Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that the longer they pretended, the closer they were to being exposed.

Still, for the time being, they continued to sit across from each other, pretending everything was fine, sharing nothing more than fleeting glances and the occasional shift of their eyes. As the cafeteria grew quieter and the whispers began to fade, Harry and Draco both knew they had to keep it together—at least until they could find a way to undo the chaos they’d stumbled into.

And for now, pretending was the only option.

The exchange between Draco and Harry had taken a turn from uncomfortable silence to something more... entertaining. Their daily routine was now punctuated with little notes, slipping them between desks, tucked into pockets, or scribbled on napkins, all in an attempt to maintain the delicate balance between pretending to be each other and not completely losing it.

It started with Draco, of course. He couldn't help himself. The very first note he'd written was in gold ink on thick, expensive parchment—something he might have used for a formal invitation or a personal letter to a close family friend. He didn't even think about it, just scribbled out a few words with a flourish.

"Potter,
Your inability to follow basic etiquette is truly remarkable. The way you chew your food in public? Absolutely appalling. You should consider asking for a lesson in proper manners—though I'm sure you'd be too thick to understand.
Draco Malfoy"

He folded the parchment neatly and slipped it into Harry’s coat pocket with a sly grin. It was, after all, part of the game. Draco wasn’t sure why it amused him so much, but seeing Harry Potter be forced to behave like Draco Malfoy brought him a sense of satisfaction.

Later that afternoon, Harry came to his desk to find a response—not written in anything nearly as refined as gold ink, but in messy, bold strokes of crayon on a napkin.

**"Malfoy,
Sorry, I didn’t realize there was a proper way to chew food. Maybe you should take a break from breathing, too, so we can all live in your perfect little world where everything is wrong.

• Harry (not Potter)"**

The note was absurd, written in a deep shade of blue, smudged slightly at the edges, but it brought a genuine smirk to Draco’s face when he read it. He didn’t even bother trying to keep his amusement in check when he saw the crayon.

"Potter,
First of all, my world is not perfect, far from it. I simply have standards. Perhaps you'd benefit from having some of your own.
Draco Malfoy"

As the days went on, the notes became a staple of their strange new reality. Draco, still in Harry's body, would leave snide, well-written notes for Harry, in his usual Malfoy fashion—elegant, precise, and dripping with the kind of superiority only Draco could manage. And Harry? He'd respond, always in the most chaotic and unrefined ways possible: crayon on napkins, scraps of parchment, or even ripped pieces of a newspaper. The absurdity of it all kept them both oddly entertained.

It wasn’t just the notes, though. Draco couldn’t help but notice something as time passed—being Harry Potter wasn't exactly the worst thing in the world. It was a slow realization that crept up on him, stealing his thoughts when he least expected it. He’d always been so caught up in the expectations of his family—being the perfect Malfoy heir, upholding his family’s reputation, keeping up with the snide remarks and looks of superiority. But as Harry, things were different. There were no eyes watching his every move, no endless pressure to live up to the Malfoy legacy.

He had his own body to move in, his own space to fill, and for once, no one expected anything of him. No one cared what he wore, how he held himself, or what reputation he carried with him. He could actually relax. For the first time in... well, forever, he didn't have to be the embodiment of high society and perfection.

This is strange, Draco thought one morning, staring at Harry’s messy, simple reflection in the mirror. But I don't hate it.

Harry, on the other hand, was beginning to see Malfoy in a new light. He had always written him off as a stuck-up prat, someone who thrived on cruelty and wealth, but something about living his life for a few days now... well, it was different. Being Draco Malfoy was harder than it seemed.

The constant weight of expectations was crushing. Every conversation felt like a performance, every gesture calculated and measured to uphold his family’s reputation. He hadn’t realized just how much of that pressure Draco had carried until he had to live it himself.

That evening, after a particularly brutal dinner at the Ministry where Draco (as Harry) had been forced to exchange pleasantries with a group of aristocratic wizards, Harry found himself alone in the bathroom. He took a long look in the mirror, studying Draco’s features more carefully than he ever had before. The sharpness of his jaw, the arrogant tilt of his chin, the weight of his family’s name. It wasn’t easy living up to that every day. It was exhausting.

When Draco returned home later, his expression was unreadable, but Harry could sense it. The glances they exchanged over their shared silence told him everything he needed to know. They were both just trying to make it through this insane situation without completely losing themselves.

Draco walked into the living room, throwing himself onto the couch. He let out a deep sigh. “You know, Potter,” he started, voice carefully measured, “this whole... being you thing... it’s liberating. No one expects anything from me. No one’s trying to force me into some role. It’s... nice. In a weird way.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, glancing over at him. "I thought you'd hate it."

Draco’s lips curled into a half-smirk, but it was a little softer than usual. “I thought I would, too.”

Harry shook his head, leaning against the wall. "And I... well, maybe I’m starting to see that you’re not just a stuck-up, arrogant prat. Maybe you've got real expectations. That can't be easy."

Draco didn’t respond immediately, but his eyes flickered with something that wasn’t quite contempt. He simply nodded, letting the moment pass without saying too much. In some strange, unspoken way, they both knew that their perspectives were shifting. Slowly, but surely, the walls between them were starting to crumble.

And just when they thought things couldn’t get stranger, a sudden knock at the door interrupted the silence, and the game would have to continue.

Draco, still in Harry’s body, stood frozen at the door, his heart pounding in his chest. The knock had come out of nowhere, and now, standing in front of him was none other than Ron Weasley. The last person Draco—or Harry—needed to see right now.

For a moment, Draco considered just pretending to be completely unaware of the whole situation and pretending it was someone else’s problem. But then, a sudden burst of panic hit him. He couldn't back out now. He had to act like Harry—and fast.

Taking a steadying breath, Draco straightened his posture and swung the door open, putting on his best Harry Potter expression—cool, collected, and very, very done with Ron’s constant interruptions.

“Well, if it isn’t Ron Weasley, stopping by at the crack of dawn,” Draco said, forcing Harry’s usual sarcasm into his tone. “What can I do for you?”

Ron blinked, clearly thrown off by Draco’s uncharacteristically cold greeting. His eyes darted across Harry’s flat, lingering on the untidy piles of clothes, the faint smell of takeout in the air, and the general disarray. He gave Draco—Harry—a suspicious look before squinting.

“You’re, uh, looking a little different, mate,” Ron said, clearly trying to make sense of what he was seeing. “What’s going on?”

Draco swallowed hard, trying not to let his nerves show. Of course, Ron would notice. He always did. But Draco had to be cool. He had to pretend. So, keeping his best poker face on, he shrugged, shoving his hands in the pockets of Harry’s worn jeans.

“What’s it to you?” Draco—Harry—said, adopting Harry’s usual blunt tone. “I’m just doing my thing, Weasley. Don’t need a reason.”

Ron raised an eyebrow at him, looking confused but not fully convinced. “Doing your thing? You’ve never been this…” He gestured vaguely at Draco, taking in the casual demeanor, the slightly disheveled look that Harry never usually had. “You’re not exactly acting like yourself, mate.”

Draco’s heart skipped a beat. That was a problem. If Ron kept pushing, he might blow the whole thing. “I’m fine,” he muttered, his voice low. “I’ve just got things on my mind. You know how it is.”

Ron seemed to buy that, but he wasn’t entirely convinced. With a slight frown, he pushed forward into the flat, entering uninvited as usual. “Yeah, well, we haven’t seen you around lately. You’ve been really quiet.” He eyed Draco suspiciously. “And we never get any invites. You’ve been spending more time in here than at the Burrow, mate?”

Draco mentally cursed himself for not thinking of that. Of course, Ron would wonder why Harry was holed up here. He had to think quickly. He needed to throw Ron off the scent.

“Yeah, well, I’ve got my own things to work through,” Draco said, trying to sound indifferent. He stepped aside to allow Ron to enter further, feeling the full weight of the awkwardness in the room. “Just needed some space. You know how it is.”

But Ron wasn’t letting up. He paced around the flat, noticing every detail. "Space, huh?" Ron said, his eyes narrowing as he looked back toward Draco—Harry—with growing suspicion. “Since when does Harry Potter need space from us? You’re acting… off, mate. A bit too calm, a bit too… comfortable. Something’s not right.”

Ron’s piercing gaze landed on the couch where Harry’s—Draco’s—jacket was draped, the same jacket Harry would never have casually left behind. Draco cursed inwardly. He should’ve hidden that.

But before Draco could respond, Ron turned back, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “You sure you’re alright? I know it’s been a weird few months, but…” He hesitated. “You know, if you ever wanted to talk about anything—”

Draco almost choked on his own breath as Ron’s words trailed off. Was he really implying what Draco thought he was implying? He narrowed his eyes, trying not to react.

“Yeah, yeah,” Draco said quickly, not wanting Ron to get any more ideas. “Everything’s fine. You’re worrying too much.” He stepped forward and clapped Ron on the back, trying to act natural even though his stomach was tied in knots. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got some stuff to do. You can get going.”

But Ron didn’t move. Instead, he peered at Draco—Harry—with a far too knowing expression.

“Well,” Ron said slowly, “you and Malfoy always have gotten along better than I thought, but this… I don’t know, mate.” He paused again, as if he were trying to piece something together. “I mean, I’m all for you and Malfoy putting your differences aside, but…” He raised his eyebrows, a half-grin spreading across his face. “Didn’t think this was how you’d go about it.”

Draco froze, feeling a cold sweat break out along his neck. Didn’t think what was how I’d go about it?

“What are you—” Draco started, his voice a little too sharp, but Ron interrupted him.

“Harry, I’ve seen you act this weird when you’re—well, when you’ve got something else on your mind,” Ron said, grinning now, clearly enjoying the idea of teasing Harry—Draco—even though he was clearly misunderstanding what was actually happening. “You sure everything’s alright? You and Malfoy… alone in here together... It’s not like you to keep things this secretive.” His grin widened, clearly assuming the worst.

Draco’s eyes widened in horror as Ron’s words began to sink in. Oh no. He couldn’t possibly think that. The last thing Draco needed was to be seen as Harry’s lover—or vice versa.

But before he could form a response, Ron gave a dramatic wink, nodding as if he'd figured it all out.

“I see it now,” Ron said knowingly. “You two have got something going on, haven’t you?” He chuckled. “Alright, mate, I get it. But if you’re really gonna keep it a secret, at least make it less obvious. You don’t want to give Hermione any ideas, you know?”

Draco’s jaw tightened, and his eyes flitted over to where Harry—Draco—was standing, completely caught in the act of pretending not to be mortified. They exchanged a glance, both trying their best not to let the awkwardness suffocate them.

“Ron—” Harry—Draco—finally spoke, a mixture of embarrassment and frustration in his voice. “You’re out of your mind. Nothing is going on.” He tried to smile and clear the air, but the expression was stiff, barely convincing.

Ron just grinned, clearly satisfied with his conclusion. “Right. Sure, mate. I won’t tell anyone… yet.” He gave a teasing wink before finally backing toward the door. “But seriously, if you need advice, you know where I am.”

The door clicked shut behind Ron, and a heavy silence settled over the flat. Draco and Harry were left standing there, the tension still palpable after the awkwardness of the last few minutes.

Draco let out a long breath, shaking his head. “That was a bloody disaster.”

Harry—still very much in Draco’s body—sagged against the back of the couch, rubbing his eyes. “Tell me about it. Ron's entirely convinced we're in some... secret relationship or something.” He grimaced. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Draco snorted, tossing himself onto the arm of the couch. “Well, you did let him think that. It’s not exactly subtle, Potter. What kind of nonsense were you planning to do when he showed up?”

“Do you think I knew he was coming?” Harry snapped, only half-joking. He ran a hand through his messy hair—Draco’smessy hair. “I’m just trying to get through this ridiculous week without any more weirdness. I already feel like I’m about to lose my mind.”

Draco leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling with a thoughtful frown. “You’re not the only one. Honestly, Potter, I’ve never had to pretend to be someone else for this long. I’ve faked a lot of things in my life, but this? This is something else.”

Harry laughed dryly. “Yeah, well, you’re doing a stellar job so far.” He squinted at Draco. “I’ve gotta hand it to you, you do make a convincing me. You might even fool some people.”

Draco’s lips curled into a small smirk. “And you make a fabulous version of me, don’t you? Though, I have to admit, you need a little more polish. I’ve noticed you haven’t quite got the hang of everything yet.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Are you saying I’m not acting like you?”

Draco gave him an exaggerated look. “You missed the part about ‘having to act like you’ when Weasley showed up. You didn’t quite pull off the ‘aloof’ thing. Or the ‘disinterested’ tone. And—” he raised an eyebrow, “—you might want to stop looking so genuinely uncomfortable. That’s a bit of a giveaway.”

Harry shot him a glare, but his shoulders relaxed a little. “Alright, alright, you’re right. This is… harder than I thought. But what about you? You can’t even stand to look at the mirror without cringing.”

Draco paused, then let out a heavy sigh. “I won’t lie, it’s unsettling, alright? Being in your… skin, so to speak.” He shuddered at the thought. “But we’ve gotta get through this. We don’t have much choice. And neither of us has the luxury of being able to freak out. So we’ve gotta pretend we’re normal for a while.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Right, normal. I’m sure that’s going to work out perfectly, considering that you just spent five minutes pretending to be me while trying not to look like you want to explode from the inside.”

Draco smirked. “Hey, I’m adapting, okay? I’m learning how to deal with this situation.” He glanced at Harry. “You’re not the only one who has to get used to this.”

Harry exhaled, staring off into space for a moment. “I’m just glad I don’t have to deal with the bloody Malfoy family for a while. If I had to walk into that house and pretend to be you around your mother—”

Draco groaned. “Don’t even remind me. My mother is… intense. I haven’t had a normal conversation with her in years.” He looked over at Harry. “You’ve never had to deal with that, have you?”

Harry frowned, thinking about it. “Not really. I mean, I’ve dealt with the Dursleys, but that’s a different thing entirely.” He paused, trying to imagine what Draco’s life must have been like, growing up with such expectations. “You know, I didn’t realize how much pressure you were under. With your parents, your name, everything… It must have been exhausting.”

Draco blinked, not expecting the sudden shift in conversation. He looked away, his jaw tightening for a brief moment before he forced a casual shrug. “It wasn’t exactly fun, no. But you get used to it. Expectations are… part of life. You can’t avoid them. Not when you’re a Malfoy.”

Harry nodded slowly, feeling a mix of empathy and surprise. “I guess I never thought about it that way. I always just assumed you had everything handed to you.”

Draco snorted bitterly. “Sure, it looks that way. But everything has a price, Potter. You don’t get to be me without paying for it in some way.”

Harry couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy. The whole “Malfoy” thing always seemed like a mask—something that Draco had been forced to wear, whether he liked it or not. And now, it wasn’t just about pretending to be someone else. It was about understanding the pressure that the other had lived under for years.

“That must’ve been rough,” Harry said quietly.

Draco didn’t respond right away. Instead, he just stared at the floor, eyes flicking briefly to Harry. “I’ll survive,” he said in his usual cold tone, but there was something there now—something softer, just for a second.

The silence hung between them for a moment, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… quiet.

Finally, Draco broke the silence, standing up and stretching. “Anyway, enough of that.” He gave Harry a pointed look. “You’re not exactly an expert at pretending to be me, so you’d better get your act together if we’re going to make it through this week without anyone finding out.”

Harry sat up straighter. “You think I want to be you for another second?” he snapped, but there was no malice in his voice. He was just… tired. Tired of trying to be someone else.

“When it’s over,” Draco interrupted with a wry grin, “I’ll never speak to you again. But until then? Let’s make sure we don’t get caught.”

Harry chuckled, a genuine, albeit tired, laugh. “Deal.”

And for the first time since they had swapped places, there was a faint sense of understanding between them. A mutual respect born of the shared struggle. They still had a long way to go before this would all be over, but for the first time, it didn’t feel entirely impossible.

The knock on the door was quick, sharp, and familiar. Harry, as Draco, was sitting in the lounge of Draco’s manor, trying—unsuccessfully—to adjust to the overwhelming strangeness of his current situation. He had spent the last few hours looking over Draco’s wardrobe again (which, to his dismay, seemed to have only a little more personality than his own) and practicing walking in a more dignified way, which was harder than it sounded.

A second knock echoed through the flat, a bit more insistent this time.

Harry sighed. “Bloody hell,” he muttered to himself, straightening up before making his way to the door. He opened it to find Pansy Parkinson standing there, looking as impeccable as ever, with a slight frown on her face.

“Draco, darling,” Pansy said sweetly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “You look positively awful.” She flicked her hair over her shoulder, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Harry felt his skin crawl at the sound of his own name coming from her lips. He quickly shoved aside his discomfort and tried to act casual. “I’m fine. Just a long week.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh. If by ‘long week,’ you mean you’ve been brooding over him.”

Harry blinked, unsure what she was referring to. “Who?”

“You know,” Pansy said, giving him a pointed look, “Potter. Harry Potter. You’ve been spending an awful lot of time with him lately, haven’t you?”

Harry’s stomach dropped. He hadn’t been trying to get close to Potter, at least not consciously, but the Ministry had been buzzing with rumors lately about the two of them, especially after their odd interactions during some recent cases. Harry had tried his best to keep a low profile about it all. He wasn’t ready to be caught in the middle of this mess, and certainly not in Draco’s body.

“I—what are you talking about?” he said, carefully schooling his features. “I’ve been busy with work.”

“Oh, please,” Pansy scoffed, pulling a magazine out of her bag—Witch Weekly, of course—and tossing it onto the coffee table in front of him. The cover was plastered with Harry’s face. “I think it’s more than just work, Draco. Word around the Ministry is you’ve been practically inseparable from Potter. Honestly, I never thought I’d see the day. The great Draco Malfoy, chasing after Harry Potter.”

Harry’s eyes widened, staring at the cover with a mix of disbelief and mortification. There he was—his own face—on the front page, next to a headline about his apparent ‘close relationship’ with Draco Malfoy. The last thing he wanted was Pansy to catch onto any of this.

“I—I’m not ‘chasing after’ Potter,” he managed, trying to sound confident. “That’s ridiculous. It’s just work, nothing more.”

Pansy raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Oh, really? Because everyone at the Ministry is talking about how you two have been getting quite cozy. You’ve been spotted together a lot, Draco. People are starting to talk. And the way you look at him sometimes…” She trailed off, smirking.

Harry swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way his heart thudded. “What do you mean, ‘look at him’?” he asked, his voice strained. He didn’t dare look at the magazine again. He couldn’t. This was getting too complicated.

“Oh, don’t pretend like you don’t know,” Pansy said with a teasing smile, setting the magazine down again. “The way you act around him, Draco. It’s obvious, even if you’re trying to hide it. You’ve been practically hovering around him, following him like a little lost puppy.”

“I’m not a puppy,” Harry snapped, the frustration rising. “I’m just… managing the case. Nothing more. There’s nothing between us, Pansy.”

She didn’t buy it, of course. “Come on, Draco. You can’t fool me. Everyone can see it. You’ve got it bad for Potter, don’t you?”

Harry rubbed his temples, exasperated. “I do not have it bad for Potter.” But that was a lie. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but every interaction with Draco in his body was… unsettling, in more ways than one. There was too much to figure out.

“Sure you don’t,” Pansy said sarcastically, crossing her arms. “If you say so. But you can’t tell me you haven’t noticed how close you two are now. Honestly, Draco, you’re practically obsessed with him. It’s a tragic case.”

“I’m not obsessed with him,” Harry repeated, feeling a bit too defensive for comfort. “Honestly, Pansy, this is just a—”

“Wait,” Pansy interrupted with a mischievous grin. “I’ve got it. This is why you’ve been so off lately. You’ve been pretending it’s just a job, but it’s not. You’re falling for him, aren’t you? This is actually kinda sweet.”

Harry stared at her, completely flabbergasted. “I’m not—” he began, but his mind was too scrambled. Pansy had no ideawhat was going on. But the thought of being mistaken for having a crush on Harry Potter? Well, that was just too much.

“Oh, fine, fine,” she said, tossing her hands up. “Pretend all you want, Draco. I know the truth. I’m just saying—you’ve got it bad.”

“I don’t have it bad,” Harry repeated, a little less forcefully this time, because he wasn’t sure anymore.

Pansy grinned wickedly as she stood up, giving him a once-over. “Well, whatever’s going on with you two, I hope you work it out. But just know, if you need advice on how to woo Potter, I’m your gal.”

Harry was too dumbfounded to respond, and before he could say anything more, Pansy made her dramatic exit. “Good luck, Draco,” she called, her voice full of mischievous knowing. “You’ve got this.”

With a deep sigh, Harry slumped back against the couch, staring at the Witch Weekly magazine. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Not only was he stuck pretending to be Draco Malfoy, but now Pansy thought he was falling for Harry Potter?

This was too much. Too complicated. Too ridiculous.

And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way Pansy had said it, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Could it be true? Did Draco really have a thing for Harry?

Harry groaned. He couldn’t even think about this right now. He just needed to get through this day. And the next. And the next.

But he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep up this charade.

Draco (as Harry) had spent the entire morning trying to keep up the charade, but it was starting to get harder. Everything that had once been second nature to Harry was suddenly foreign to him. He had never been the kind to fuss over details, but in Harry's body, every little thing felt completely out of place.

It all started that morning, in the Ministry office.

Hermione, as usual, had a stack of papers in front of her, glancing at Harry’s desk. Draco (as Harry) was hunched over, scribbling notes with a quill in his hand. It felt strangely awkward—like he was holding something that belonged in the past, something that didn’t quite fit his new life.

"Harry," Hermione said, her voice curious. "You’re using a quill? You hate quills. You always use a biro."

Draco froze, his quill hovering mid-air. He glanced at the ancient instrument as though it might bite him. "I—what? I do?" He grimaced, clearly trying to process this. "But this—this feels... more proper, doesn't it? I mean, I—"

Hermione raised an eyebrow, her expression a mix of confusion and amusement. "You’ve always said biro’s easier. What’s going on with you, mate?"

Draco's mind was racing. He had no clue why Harry would prefer a biro, but that didn’t matter right now. Focus. "Maybe I’ve... changed my mind. You know. Thought I’d... go vintage for once. Get with the times," he said, trying to sound casual.

Hermione stared at him, clearly not convinced. "Right," she said slowly, "if you say so."

Draco sighed in relief as she moved on, but he had barely enough time to relax before Ron wandered over, holding a half-eaten sandwich. He was looking at Draco (as Harry) with a slightly puzzled expression.

"Mate," Ron said, taking a bite of his sandwich and squinting at Harry’s desk. "Since when do you eat smoked salmon and poached eggs for breakfast?"

Draco’s eyes widened. He looked down at the plate in front of him, where an expensive-looking breakfast had been laid out—something Harry would have likely never even considered. Smoked salmon? Poached eggs? Draco nearly gagged. How was he supposed to respond?

He raised an eyebrow at Ron. "Excuse me," he said, trying to hold back a grimace, "if I don’t want to consume burnt toast and regret every morning."

Ron gave him an odd look, clearly baffled. "Yeah, alright," he muttered, but he didn’t press further.

Draco let out a slow breath, hoping he could get through the day without raising suspicion. But then, of course, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was off. He wasn't just drinking coffee with an air of indifference anymore—he found himself savoring the cup, even enjoying it more than usual. He couldn’t recall ever enjoying the taste of coffee before. But somehow, in Harry’s body, it felt different.

After a few minutes of trying to compose himself, Draco finally picked up Harry’s mug. Hermione caught his movement and chuckled lightly. "Harry, you’ve got cream on your lip."

Draco wiped his lip quickly, trying to keep his composure. "I—uh, I don’t usually drink this much cream."

Hermione snorted. "Clearly." She raised her brows, amused, but didn’t push it any further. "Well, whatever works for you, mate."

As she walked off to her own desk, Draco sank back in his chair, feeling the weight of Harry’s habits pressing in on him. He was doing his best to blend in, but the more he tried, the more off everything felt.

And that was only the morning.

By the time the afternoon came around, Draco was left staring at a parchment, trying to figure out what on earth he was supposed to write. His thoughts were scattered, and he was getting increasingly nervous about his upcoming meeting with the others. He just didn’t know how much longer he could keep up this act without something slipping.

Draco (as Harry) had gotten so good at pretending to be Harry Potter, he was starting to wonder whether he could ever be Harry Potter again. His mornings now consisted of eating smoked salmon and poached eggs, getting through the Ministry day without embarrassing himself, and acting like a man who didn’t have an ounce of personal space or sanity left.

But it wasn’t just the absurdity of the situation that kept him on edge.

It was Harry.

The real Harry Potter, the one Draco was pretending to be, was a mess. He was easygoing, but that was only because he didn’t take anything seriously—certainly not himself. But Draco, now inhabiting his life, was beginning to see things differently. To feel things differently. It was as though Harry’s world was easy, and Draco was discovering it through a lens of both amusement and disbelief.

One thing he couldn’t ignore anymore was the connection between him and Harry. The way Harry would look at him—sometimes in annoyance, other times in exasperation—but every now and then, Draco would catch something else in those green eyes. Something familiar. Something that reminded him of the old days, when they were rivals, enemies, and yet… not really enemies at all.

It happened again that evening, when Draco (as Harry) was standing in front of the mirror, fiddling with his tie. His reflection stared back at him—Harry’s face, Harry’s body—and he couldn’t help but think, How did it come to this?

The door to the flat creaked open, and Draco’s thoughts were interrupted.

“Oi, Potter.” Harry’s voice—his voice—sounded a little too casual as he walked in, kicking off his shoes. Draco turned around to see Harry (as Draco) standing there with a tired look on his face, like he’d just returned from a long day of pretending to be him.

“Why do you keep calling me that?” Draco couldn’t help but ask, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Harry (as Draco) rolled his eyes, walking over to the kitchen and grabbing a glass of water. “Because you’re not really Potter, are you?”

“Really? You don’t say,” Draco replied dryly. “Is that your professional diagnosis, Malfoy?”

Harry (as Draco) ignored him, though the corners of his mouth twitched in a small, familiar way. Draco couldn’t place it, but he felt it—the same way he had when they were in school, when Harry would do that thing, like he was trying to mask something deeper.

But as Harry (as Draco) took a sip of water, Draco realized it wasn’t just the familiar gestures. It was the way he’d learned to read Harry, too. The way he could tell when something was bothering him, even if Harry tried to hide it behind an indifferent mask. The way Harry (as Draco) would sometimes stare off into space, his thoughts clearly far away, lost in some memory Draco couldn’t quite figure out.

"Is something wrong?" Harry (as Draco) asked, turning back to face Draco.

Draco froze for a moment. "What?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You look like you’re lost in thought.”

Draco blinked, then scoffed, trying to shake it off. “I was just… thinking about something. Nothing important.”

But Harry (as Draco) wasn’t fooled. He didn’t need to be. Draco was starting to feel the shift in their dynamic, the one that had started back in school but had always been tangled in rivalry and bitterness.

It was almost... natural.

Harry (as Draco) set the glass down and took a few steps toward him, his gaze suddenly intense. “You know, it’s strange, Malfoy. I didn’t realize how well I knew you until now. All those little things you used to do, back in school... it’s like they’re all still there.”

Draco swallowed. “What are you talking about?”

“Your laugh,” Harry (as Draco) said, his voice low. “You do this thing where you try to hide it, but I always knew when you were genuinely amused. And the way you used to fidget when you were uncomfortable... like you just can’t stand still.”

Draco’s heart skipped a beat. Harry was right. He did know that. And now, standing there in Harry’s body, he could almost feel the weight of all the years they’d spent not understanding each other. Not knowing how similar they were.

“I know you, too,” Draco said quietly, though he didn’t realize how it sounded until the words were already out. “I know what you’re thinking before you even say it. It’s almost... like we’ve always been connected.”

Harry (as Draco) took another step toward him, so close now that Draco could feel the heat radiating off his body. “So what does that mean, then?”

Draco’s breath caught. For a moment, everything seemed to freeze. He was so close to saying something—something that could change everything—but before he could voice it, the moment slipped away. Harry (as Draco) just shook his head, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Harry (as Draco) said. “It’s just... funny, isn’t it? How we spent all those years hating each other, but now, we can’t seem to stay away.”

Draco didn’t know what to say to that. He felt something stir inside him, something that was more than just confusion or frustration. It was complicated—and not just because they were pretending to be each other.

Draco and Harry, in this strange new reality, found themselves in a precarious place. The rivalry they’d once had, the animosity, had been replaced with something else—something unspoken, but not unnoticed.

And maybe, just maybe, they had always been more alike than they realized.

The hallway was bustling with Ministry workers—people hurrying to and fro, caught in the rhythm of their workday. Draco (as Harry) adjusted his glasses nervously, keeping his head down as he tried to blend in with the crowd. He didn’t want to risk anyone recognizing him. But as fate would have it, the unmistakable voice of Percy Weasley echoed down the hall.

“Harry, is that you? I haven’t seen you around much lately—”

"Shit," Draco muttered under his breath, eyes wide. “We need to hide. Now.”

Before Harry (as Draco) could respond, Draco yanked him toward the nearest door, his grip tighter than necessary. They stumbled into a narrow broom cupboard and quickly slammed the door shut behind them, plunging them into darkness.

Draco pressed his back against the cool wooden door, trying to steady his breath. His heart was racing—half from the sudden panic, half from how their bodies were pressed together in the cramped space. Harry (as Draco) was standing uncomfortably close in front of him, the smell of his cologne and something faintly like earth and pine needles filling the space.

This was... awkward. Too awkward. Too intimate.

“Really, Malfoy—Harry,” Harry (as Draco) whispered, looking down at the floor awkwardly, his hand brushing against Draco’s arm as he adjusted himself. “We’re not exactly... blending in either.”

Draco shot him a quick, irritated look, suppressing the discomfort bubbling inside him. He could feel Harry’s presence too strongly, every movement of their bodies just too close. His body—Harry’s body—felt warm next to him, almost unnervingly so. The space was small, and the air felt tight, the smell of dust and old wood mixed with Harry’s unique scent that was almost too familiar now.

“I know,” Draco muttered, still avoiding eye contact. His voice was unnaturally quiet, like he was trying to keep his irritation in check but failing. “But it’s your fault, Potter. Can’t you keep a lower profile?”

Harry shrugged, but in the limited space, the movement was practically a full-body shift. “Can’t help it if your reputation keeps following me around,” he teased, voice light, but there was something in the way he said it that felt... almost tender? No, Draco must’ve been imagining it.

But the awkwardness only deepened. Draco was standing far too close to Harry, their bodies nearly touching, and the air between them felt charged in a way he couldn’t quite explain. His body—Harry’s body—felt alien to him. There was something strange about standing in a body that wasn’t your own, but with the additional awareness of being close to someone whose body wasn’t yours either... it felt like a line had blurred between them that had never existed before.

“What’s so funny?” Draco asked, trying to mask the tension by making the words sound accusatory.

“Nothing,” Harry said, his voice oddly light and amused. But when Draco glanced at him, he saw Harry’s eyes were flickering, perhaps to his own dismay or... something else? Draco couldn’t place it.

It was strange. And it was even stranger how Draco—how he—kept noticing how Harry was so close, how his breath hitched slightly when Harry shifted a little too much against him, his arm brushing Draco’s. It was as though everything about their proximity felt too intimate, too intimate for a situation that should have just been about hiding.

“Potter,” Draco began, trying to brush it off, but his tone was off, weaker than he meant it to be. “Can you just... stop breathing so loudly?”

Harry raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into something that looked like an amused smirk. “Says the bloke who keeps glancing at me. Are you sure this is just about hiding, Malfoy?”

“I’m not glancing at you,” Draco muttered, eyes snapping away, but his face was flush. “I’m just... keeping an eye on the door. In case someone comes by.” He quickly adjusted his stance, suddenly hyper-aware of how their legs were touching in the narrow space.

“Right. Keeping an eye on the door.” Harry’s voice dropped a little, and despite the awkwardness, Draco could feel the weight of Harry’s gaze on him, even in the dim light. “But, uh, I think you’re staring at my hair, not the door.”

Draco stiffened. “I’m not staring at your hair, Potter.” He wasn’t, was he? He had to admit, Harry’s hair—his hair now—was rather... well, it was messy in that charming, unintentional way that made Draco want to reach up and smooth it down. But he couldn’t. He shouldn’t.

“I think you are,” Harry said quietly, so softly that Draco almost didn’t hear it.

The quietness between them felt strange, too quiet for a situation like this. The buzzing tension from earlier hadn’t gone away; if anything, it had settled deeper, like an invisible pull between them. Neither of them was making any move to break it.

“Shut up, Potter,” Draco mumbled, his voice betraying the nerves in his stomach.

But Harry didn’t respond right away. Instead, there was a beat of silence where the space between them seemed to stretch, then contract. Draco found himself glancing at Harry again, not out of annoyance, but curiosity. What was this feeling? This strange awareness of Harry’s presence—of him—and of everything that had shifted between them in these past few days?

In the midst of it all, it hit him: a realization so subtle and quiet that he almost missed it. Despite the ridiculousness of the situation, despite the absurdity of pretending to be each other, Draco was fond of him.

But not just in the way he always had been—fond in the way you are of someone who has always been there, someone whose very existence has become inseparable from your own. Draco had spent years harboring something he never truly acknowledged. A strange, confusing feeling that had gnawed at him in school, buried deep beneath his rivalry with Harry. And now, here in this cramped broom cupboard, with their bodies pressed uncomfortably together, it was impossible to ignore.

And as Harry (as Draco) looked at him, Draco saw it too in his eyes: something flickering between them. The realization hit both of them, and neither knew how to deal with it.

“You’re right,” Harry murmured, breaking the silence at last, his voice far quieter than before. “You’re... right.”

Draco turned to look at him, confusion written across his face. "What do you mean?"

“I... I don’t know,” Harry answered with a quiet laugh, but there was something in it—something that sounded just a little too real. “But I think I’m starting to get it.”

And just like that, the line between what they were pretending to be and what they were becoming began to blur even more. Neither of them knew how to untangle what was happening, but neither could deny it.

Days had passed since the incident in the broom cupboard. Draco and Harry had found themselves falling into an unspoken rhythm. There were moments when they would catch each other's eyes and look away quickly, a sharp pang of something they couldn’t quite name in the pit of their stomachs.

But today, it was different.

Draco had been going through the motions—pretending to be Harry, pretending to be the Boy Who Lived—but there was something he could no longer ignore. The connection with Harry had deepened, and it wasn’t just the body swap. There was something else simmering between them now, something that couldn’t be dismissed or explained away with their usual rivalry.

It was late in the evening, the glow of the fireplace casting long shadows across the room in Harry’s flat. They had been sitting on the couch in an uncomfortable silence after a long day at the Ministry, pretending to read reports and avoiding looking at each other. But the tension had grown thick, heavy in the air, and Draco couldn't ignore the way his heart pounded in his chest every time Harry was near.

“Potter,” Draco began, the name slipping out of his mouth more softly than he intended. He winced. He couldn’t call him Potter anymore. Not after everything that had happened. Not after the moments they’d shared.

Harry turned his head slowly, his eyes still locked on the parchment in front of him, but Draco saw the way his jaw tightened, the way he shifted slightly in his seat. He felt it too.

“Yeah?” Harry said with a quiet sigh, putting down the report he’d been pretending to read. His voice was softer than usual, and Draco could tell that it was just as difficult for him to break the silence.

“Do you think…” Draco hesitated, unsure of how to voice the thoughts that had been consuming him for days. “Do you think we’re… doing the right thing? Pretending to be each other?”

Harry (as Draco) blinked, clearly taken aback. He glanced at Draco with an expression that was somewhere between curiosity and caution. “I’m not sure. I don’t even know what we’re supposed to do anymore. It feels like we’re… crossing lines we shouldn’t.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably on the couch, his hands twitching in his lap. He couldn’t look at Harry—no, Draco—now. Not when the words were sitting in the pit of his stomach, ready to spill out.

“I don’t know what’s happening between us,” Draco admitted quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. His heart was hammering in his chest now, each beat too loud, too obvious. “But it feels different. All of it. Being in your body. Being with you.”

Harry didn’t speak immediately. Instead, he let the silence hang in the air, his fingers tapping against the edge of the coffee table as if he was considering something. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, his tone thoughtful.

“It’s been... strange for me too,” he admitted. “It’s not just the body swap, Draco. It’s... I don’t know. There’s something about being so close to you, about being you, that I can’t shake. It’s like I’m seeing everything in a different light.”

Draco could feel the heat rise in his cheeks as he met Harry’s gaze—Draco’s gaze. It was no longer just the irritation or the rivalry that had once colored their interactions. There was something new there, something that neither of them had allowed themselves to acknowledge until now.

“I—” Draco began, his voice cracking for a split second. He forced himself to take a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. “I think I’ve always been... obsessed with you. Even when we were at school. I didn’t know how to say it then. I thought it was just hate. I thought I hated you.”

Harry blinked, his expression unreadable for a moment, and then his lips quirked up in a small, wry smile. “I know,” he said simply.

Draco’s brows furrowed, confusion settling over him. “What?”

“I knew,” Harry repeated. “You didn’t have to say it. It was always there, Draco. All that tension. You acted like you hated me, but I could see it in your eyes every time. There was something more.”

The realization hit Draco with a force that left him momentarily breathless. “You’re saying you knew?” he asked, almost incredulously.

Harry smiled, a slight flush creeping up his neck. “I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t know what it was. But there was always something. And I guess now I’m starting to understand it.”

Draco sat back against the couch, his mind racing, a mixture of disbelief and something else—something softer—coursing through him. He had always thought that the animosity between them had been one-sided. That it was him against Harry, but now...

“Is this...?” Draco’s voice faltered, and he glanced at Harry, who was now looking at him with an unreadable expression. “Is this why everything feels so strange now? Because we—”

“Because we’ve always been drawn to each other,” Harry finished for him, his voice barely a whisper.

The words hung in the air, a moment of clarity that seemed to settle between them. They both knew what was happening, what had always been there, but neither of them knew what to do about it.

“I didn’t expect this,” Draco admitted softly, his hands trembling just slightly. “I didn’t expect to feel this way about you. Especially like this.”

Harry gave him a half-smile, the warmth in his eyes unmistakable. “Neither did I.”

The silence stretched between them again, but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was... gentle. Real.

As Draco  looked at Harry, he realized that maybe this was the beginning of something more than just pretending. Something more than the rivalry, the hatred, the games. They were both here now—strangers in each other’s bodies, but with a connection that neither of them could deny.

The tension between Draco and Harry had softened now, both of them settling into a strange, yet comfortable, silence. It was a quiet understanding that hung in the air as they both realized how much more complicated things had become.

But then, Harry broke the silence, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“You know,” Harry began, leaning back in his chair with a slight, almost amused smirk on his face. “I had this dinner planned with some of the Slytherins tonight. It was supposed to be this... ‘important’ gathering or whatever. But it got cancelled.” He let out a long breath, clearly relieved. “Thank Merlin.”

Draco tilted his head, raising an eyebrow, intrigued. “Cancelled? Why?” he asked, genuinely curious. “You don't seem like the type to get out of social obligations that easily.”

Harry rolled his eyes, stretching his legs out in front of him as he sunk deeper into the couch. “Oh, trust me, I do. But this one was a particularly dreadful evening. Just a bunch of smug, insufferable Slytherins making me talk about business and alliances... Ugh, I can't even begin to describe it.”

Draco chuckled, his lips curling up in a wry smile. “Sounds horrible. And you’d be expected to be the center of it all, of course.”

“Exactly,” Harry said with a sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing as though a weight had been lifted off him. “I would’ve had to sit through hours of small talk with Pansy and Blaise, pretending to care about their latest drama.”

Draco could barely suppress his laugh. “Blaise and Pansy, huh? No doubt they’d be all over you, trying to get you to agree to some ridiculous thing, like managing the Malfoy estate for them.”

“Merlin forbid,” Harry muttered with a roll of his eyes. He paused, clearly amused at his own relief. “Honestly, though, I’m kind of glad it’s off. I was dreading being Draco Malfoy for a whole evening, especially in front of people who expect me to be... well, Draco Malfoy.”

Draco smiled knowingly, a glint of teasing in his eyes. “You don’t say. I imagine that would be a bit of a strain, huh?”

Harry made a face, shifting uncomfortably. “Yeah, well. I thought it was all part of the game. But honestly, I think I prefer not having to be the person everyone expects me to be. It’s a relief, really.”

Draco gave a half-smile, clearly understanding now. "It must be nice to not have to be under constant scrutiny, to be... well, you for once."

Before Harry could respond, Draco noticed a shift in the conversation, and his own voice suddenly softened with amusement.

“You know what else is happening this week?” Draco asked, a mischievous look in his eyes.

Harry frowned. “What?”

“Dinner at the Burrow,” Draco continued, eyes glinting with amusement. “I have to go to that, don’t I?” He raised an eyebrow, clearly a little put off by the prospect. “With the Weasleys and all that... you never told me how that usually goes.”

Harry grimaced, the thought of spending another evening with the Weasley clan clearly not appealing. “Oh, the Burrow’s... nice. Very... cozy. A little chaotic. But they’re good people, Draco. You might find yourself... well, not hatingit as much as you think.”

Draco snorted in disbelief. “You’re telling me, the Weasley family?”

Harry chuckled, crossing his arms in mock defense. “I’m just saying, you might be surprised. You might even enjoy yourself.” His grin widened at the thought. “Maybe you'll find out that not everyone in the wizarding world is obsessed with social status.”

Draco shot him a look, a teasing gleam in his eyes. “I’ll believe it when I see it, Potter. But sure, I’ll try to keep an open mind.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I’m sure they’ll just adore you. You’ll fit right in.”

Draco let out a mock groan, stretching dramatically. “As long as I don’t have to answer any questions about the Malfoy family, I suppose I can handle it.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you’ll be fine. Just don’t go starting any ‘fancy’ conversations about the Ministry or business and you’ll be all right.”

They exchanged looks for a long moment, the playful teasing still hanging between them, but underneath it was something else. An understanding, a connection—something that neither of them wanted to admit aloud, but that was slowly becoming undeniable.

Harry smirked, a wicked glint in his eyes. “It seems like we’re both stuck pretending, huh?”

Draco leaned back in his chair, considering that for a moment. “I suppose we are. And I’m starting to think I might actually enjoy it. Just a little.”

Harry chuckled, looking at Draco with something almost like fondness in his gaze. “Yeah. You’re not the worst person to be stuck with, Malfoy.”

Draco grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Potter.”

The Burrow was exactly how Draco imagined it would be—chaotic, warm, and bursting with life. But even that was a little more than he’d expected. The house, with its crooked, mismatched charm, looked almost too... cozy. The walls seemed to breathe with energy, the wooden beams slightly sagging under the weight of so much family, laughter, and history. It was strange, this atmosphere of utter domesticity, so far removed from the sharp, sterile lines of Malfoy Manor.

Draco stood at the entrance, slightly nervous, trying his hardest to act like Harry Potter would in this situation. He was used to grand entrances, yes, but this was different. Here, there were no formalities, no stiff bows or well-timed greetings. Here, it was... casual. Too casual.

"Harry!" Mrs. Weasley’s voice echoed through the house, a warm, motherly greeting that made Draco flinch slightly. He was too used to being addressed in a much colder tone, and yet he forced a smile, stepping in and quickly wrapping his arms around the older woman in what he hoped was a convincingly familial way.

She didn’t seem to notice the momentary hesitation. Mrs. Weasley pulled back, beaming. "So glad you could make it, dear! Come in, come in!" She ushered him inside, and Draco couldn't help but marvel at how she commanded the room. The kitchen was packed with people, the smell of roasting meat and homemade bread filling the air. He quickly noted the Weasley family—Fred and George’s mischievous grins, Ginny’s quick smile, Ron’s wide grin as he set the table. And, of course, Hermione, sitting at the corner of the long wooden table, looking as if she was in the middle of a particularly serious conversation with Ginny.

Harry, or rather, Draco, was beginning to feel a bit like an actor trapped in a play he didn’t know the lines for.

"Sit, sit!" Mrs. Weasley insisted, her hands bustling about as she handed him a plate of food. Draco took it, unsure how much he was supposed to eat or how he should behave—he didn’t want to appear too eager, but the food smelled delicious. As he sat down, he realized that Hermione was watching him. Her eyes narrowed, studying him. It was subtle, but Draco knew that look. She was trying to figure out what was off about Harry tonight.

"Harry, love, are you sure you're feeling okay?" Mrs. Weasley asked as she hovered nearby, her concerned gaze studying him with a motherly intensity. "You’ve been working so hard, you know. You must be exhausted."

Draco's stomach turned. He wasn’t used to this kind of attention, this kind of care. The closest thing he’d ever gotten to this was... well, it was nothing like this. He had to act like Harry. He had to remember Harry's life, his habits, how he would respond to Mrs. Weasley’s kindness. He put on his best Harry-like smile.

"Yeah, I’m fine, Mrs. Weasley," he said, trying to keep his voice light and casual. "Just tired from work, that’s all. Nothing a good dinner can’t fix."

Hermione watched him closely as he said this, her brow furrowing. Draco could see the confusion in her eyes, but she didn’t press it—at least not right away.

The evening progressed, and Draco found himself caught up in the whirlwind of questions, casual chatter, and loud bursts of laughter. It was all so... strange. The Weasleys were so loud, so informal, so close-knit. Draco had never been a part of something like this. At Malfoy Manor, dinners were stiff affairs, full of strained pleasantries, far more formal than anything here at the Burrow. The Weasleys, however, were a force to be reckoned with—a completely different world.

“Harry, have you seen the latest issue of Witchy Weekly?” Ginny asked, leaning in with a mischievous grin. “They’ve got this whole article about the rumors circulating about you and Malfoy.”

At this, Draco nearly choked on his food. Witchy Weekly? The magazine was notorious for scandalous gossip, and he could already guess where this was going. He quickly set his fork down and forced a neutral expression.

“Wha—what do you mean?” he asked, trying to play it cool, though his voice betrayed his nervousness.

"Oh, you know," Ginny continued, her eyes glinting with mischief, "the one where they say you two have been seen together more than usual. Some people are even whispering that there’s something going on between you two." She leaned forward, teasing. "Quite the scandal, right? Potter and Malfoy, of all people."

“Don’t believe everything you read, Ginny,” Draco—Harry—managed to stammer, trying to maintain his composure. “It’s just rumors, nothing more.”

But his heart was pounding in his chest. This wasn’t what he was prepared for. Harry and Malfoy—together? Ridiculous. It was a bizarre enough idea when he was in his own body, but now, in Harry's, with everyone looking at him with expectant grins... It felt completely surreal.

“You sure about that?” Fred quipped, winking from the end of the table. “Because I’ve heard some pretty juicy things. And, let’s face it, Malfoy’s got that look in his eyes—real ‘I’m secretly in love with you’ energy, you know?”

The entire table burst into laughter, and Draco nearly wanted to die on the spot. This was exactly the kind of thing he hated—being the center of attention for something so ridiculous. He forced a grin, trying to push the tension from his shoulders.

“Yeah, well, there’s nothing to it. Just... rumors. Nothing more,” he repeated, almost a little too quickly.

Mrs. Weasley, as always, seemed oblivious to the teasing and cleared her throat, setting a large plate of food in front of him. “Well, whatever’s in those magazines, I think you should eat more,” she said warmly. “We wouldn’t want you looking too thin, now, would we?”

Draco managed a strained smile. “I’m fine, Mrs. Weasley, really.”

But the teasing wouldn’t stop. Hermione was now eyeing him with a knowing look, one eyebrow arched as if she had finally pieced something together. She caught his eye briefly, and for a split second, Draco wondered if she could tell that something wasn’t quite right—if she had noticed the way he had been acting strangely.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but before she could press further, Ron, who had been quietly chewing his food, finally spoke up. “Well, I don’t know if it’s just me, but it’s weird how much time you two have been spending together lately.” He paused, looking at both of them with a knowing grin. “Almost like… more than just working together.”

Draco’s stomach flipped. He couldn’t believe it. Ron was still running with that idea? But there was nothing he could do to refute it now. Not without drawing even more attention to himself.

“You’re imagining things, Ron,” Draco said, voice low and hurried, trying to brush off the idea as quickly as possible. “We’re just—” He stopped himself. What exactly were they?

He cleared his throat. “We’ve just been dealing with the Ministry stuff,” Draco finished, though it sounded weak even to his own ears.

Ron didn’t look convinced. In fact, he looked downright smug, leaning back in his chair as he exchanged glances with Fred and George, who were both wearing identical smirks.

“Well, if you two are really just working together, then you should stop acting so chummy with each other,” Ron teased. “Unless, of course, there’s something you’re not telling us.”

Draco could feel his face flushing. His mind raced for something to say, anything to deny it, but his words caught in his throat. There was no convincing Ron now—not after everything that had already happened.

Draco’s mind went blank for a second. Is this really happening? How had things escalated to this point?

Ron leaned in slightly, voice dropping into a whisper, though he knew full well that everyone could hear. “I mean, I’m not saying anything... but you two are acting a bit like a couple, you know?”

Draco nearly choked on his water, his hand shaking just slightly as he put the glass back on the table. “What? No—Ron, that’s ridiculous,” he sputtered, trying to laugh it off. “We’re not—nothing like that. We’re just... we’re just working together, alright?”

But Ron wasn’t done. “Uh-huh. Sure,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Just like how Harry’s always been so close to Malfoy, right?” He threw a wink at the others, who were all listening intently now.

“Ron,” Hermione interjected, though she couldn’t hide a teasing smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing like that.”

But Ron just couldn’t help himself. “You know, it’s just weird how chummy you two are. Almost like you’ve been hanging out too much, don’t you think?”

Draco could feel his face heating up. This was not what he had signed up for when he’d agreed to this ridiculous body swap. Trying to keep his voice steady, he forced another grin. “Honestly, Ron, you’re imagining things. We’re not—there’s nothing going on.”

But even as he said it, a nagging thought echoed in his mind. What if he was lying to himself? It wasn’t that he wasn’t used to the idea of Harry—his Harry—being surrounded by people all the time, but this felt... different. He felt something new, something more complicated, every time they were in close proximity. And as much as he hated to admit it, maybe there was some truth to what Ron was saying. Not that Draco would ever, in a million years, acknowledge it out loud.

“Well, whatever it is,” Ron said, seemingly satisfied with the discomfort he’d caused, “it’s good to see you two getting along. Just... don’t start sending each other love notes, alright?”

The laughter that followed was far too loud for Draco’s liking. He couldn’t help but feel his cheeks flush as he forced a laugh, trying to blend in with the teasing.

Finally, the conversation moved on, but the lingering feeling of unease didn’t leave. As the dinner continued, Draco found himself watching the others talk, his thoughts wandering back to the topic he had been desperately trying to avoid. What if Ron was right? What if there was something... more going on between him and Harry? The more he thought about it, the more unsettling it became, especially when he realized that Harry himself had also been acting a little too comfortable with him lately.

But for now, at least, Draco pushed those thoughts aside. He had a dinner to get through and an impossible situation to navigate. He just hoped that, by the time the evening was over, no one would be any the wiser.

But as the teasing about his “relationship” with Harry continued, Draco couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe—just maybe—this was the beginning of something he wasn’t quite ready to face.