Prologue
Prologue
I’d never been an avid believer in the supernatural. I enjoyed the occasional horror story, loved a good fantasy book, and might have fantasised about having magic at least once. However, dreaming of being the hero in a fictional world, in the safety of your daydreams inside your living room, was starkly different from waking up in another’s body. A body that was not only utterly unfamiliar to me but that of a child. A CHILD!
I hadn't been a child in— well, it had been a while!
And now, I was one. Again. A very pale and very blond-haired child.
And can I ask how someone can be so pale and have that kind of blond hair colour without being an albino? Or, without dying it at the very least? Was it magic? Considering where I woke up, it was a reasonable explanation. Magic—
It was a reasonable explanation. It shouldn’t have been. When I woke up in a room that wasn’t mine or even familiar to me, I’d first thought I was in a hospital. When I noticed the wand on my bedside table and Madam Pomfrey (who doesn’t quite look like the version the movies use, I can tell you that much), I thought I was trapped in a freakishly realistic dream— but— nothing I did, no matter how many times I squeezed my eyes shut and reopened them, changed the surroundings I saw. The body I was trapped in. And as panic started to squeeze my throat, laying on the world’s most uncomfortable bed with a scratchy white comforter draped tightly around me, I found out, finally fucking found out, whose body I was in. When I’d turned to the window, left arm heavily bandaged, I caught sight of a wavering reflection in the black glass.
His face had seemed pale and ghostlike, dimly illumined by the murky glow from the flaming torches at the wall. I hadn’t recognised him immediately. A narrow face framed with white-blond hair gazed back, and it took several minutes before I realised it was the face from which I was looking out. An ethereal image I couldn’t recognise, didn’t want to recognise, but I did. At some point, I’d woken up as a thirteen-year-old Draco Malfoy.
A fictional character—
And finally, I freaked out — reasonably so, I’d think — I might have screamed and tried to throw a vase at a very upset-looking Madam Pomfrey. I’d had to come to terms with being stuck in a fucking book series. And damn— did I come to terms with it. I went apeshit hysterical, and it was only after Pomfrey magically struck me to my bed, force-feeding me a Calming Draught—
A CALMING DRAUGHT—
Which people used in this universe as a way to solve the problem of a hysterical child— a calming draught, which was like a fucking ROOFIE!
Like, it meant a school nurse had gone and drugged a child. And it worked, I supposed. I calmed down.
It was probably her misguided belief I was just in that much pain or that this behaviour was somehow completely normal to Draco Malfoy that Pomfrey hadn’t thought to question me thoroughly. She kept me heavily sedated for a few days, which forced me somewhat to come to terms with being stuck as a fictional character but didn’t behold the sight of how fucked I was.
Because let’s face it, I was fucked. Thoroughly fucked. Not only was I not the hero, which admittedly would not have fitted me in the real world either, but I was also thrown into the skin of someone who was the villain or the antagonist. Or, a spoiled little racist at the very least, and someone who had magic to top that off, too. Although I might have been able to get away with pretending to be a thirteen-year-old, I couldn’t get away with pretending to know what I was doing when it came to magic. I knew spells — some things you never really forgot — but this Draco Malfoy was supposed to have two years of magical schooling under his belt, and he was expected to know the basics at least. I could not even levitate a piece of paper. I tried. And I couldn’t do it!
It was somewhat disappointing. You’d think being a fan of the book series and knowing enough spells by name, you’d be able to do some — or even just one — of them, but it wasn’t meant to be. And perhaps that wasn’t even my fault inherently. Maybe I could have been able to produce a spark with another wand. After all, this wand had not chosen me. It had chosen Draco, and I remembered rather vividly that the wand was supposed to choose the wizard. It might not be impressed with a body snatcher wielding it now.
Draco’s parents, indeed, weren’t impressed.
I had to devise why I couldn't do magic when I was let go from the Infirmary. Because— of course, I couldn’t do magic, not even after a complete afternoon trying. The wand was just a slap of wood in my hands, the words tasteless when they passed over the arrogant curve of my lips and— nothing. The condescending expression I threw at my reflection didn’t help either, so when Madam Pomfrey came carrying a basin with a sponge and soapy water, I turned towards her, speaking in hushed, upset tones I thought a child would use. I’d gone for the most teary-eyed expression I could think of and told her it hurt so bad I couldn’t focus. How it tingled and pulsed and— truth to be told, it did hurt a bit. There was a strange, perhaps slightly painful, tingle fluttering down the fingers of my left hand (a bit like pins and needles), but it wasn’t the worst pain I’d ever felt. And wasn’t that a mild surprise? It seemed the little snot hadn’t exaggerated the Hippogriff injury entirely.
Either way, when I sniffed pathetically, her expression softened. My heart had almost stirred out of my chest when she told me she would examine me again. She did, and although I’d initially thought that would be a huge fucking problem, she uncovered something amiss with my left arm. I watched her produce all kinds of colours, her wand twirling over the unblemished pale flesh of my arms and after half an hour, she jutted down paraesthesia on a scroll and then explained absentmindedly that while the blood vessels had healed quite nicely, leaving only a faint barely noticeable white line on the inner side of my forearm, the Hippogriff’s talons had severed the smaller vessels surrounding the ulna nerve. Which supposedly delivered oxygen and nutrients to the concerned nerve. Although easily overlooked — was she trying to come up with excuses why she hadn’t thought to check for what was typical nerve damage — the short-term shortage had interfered with the ability to transmit impulses to the spinal cord and, to an extent, to the brain. Which, I would have quickly summarised as, ‘you have nerve damage,’ and ‘we’re not sure if it’s permanent or not’. However, Pomfrey was a lot, but short and to the point, she was not. Instead, she kept babbling that there was a high chance the tingling would be temporary and ‘oh, perhaps I’d like another pain-killer potion?’ I would not. But I was going to milk this excuse for all it was worth.
And while I was at that, trying to stop any Slytherin classmate from carrying my bag (Crabbe or Goyle?) or batting her eyes at me (Parkinson, without a doubt), I would figure out how I’d gotten stuck inside another’s body. There was no logical reason why I’d woken up as someone else. I didn’t even understand what had happened— no, I did remember. Or I thought I’d remembered. I’d gone outside, nothing spectacular, nothing odd; I’d just opened the door and climbed down the stone steps when I slipped. I could still intimately remember the little swoop I’d felt in my stomach, my fingers curling tightly around my phone, WhatsApp flickering with a funny GIF I’d wanted to send, and the world tilting, the sky flashing a bright cerulean blue at me— and then—
Nothing.
My mind came up blank, but I concluded I must have died. Or worse—
And I woke up in the Hogwarts’ infirmary, two almost three decades into the past, in a different universe. Where, instead of a lamp, smouldering wicks had melted wax on the wooden nightstand. Where strange creatures flapped past the high paned windows and where something vast and languid swum into the dark, dark recesses of the lake in front of the building I’d found myself in. I’d been caught up in a dream that was a nightmarish reality.
And I had no idea how to deal with it. When discharged from the hospital, taking a strict regime of potions that should perhaps regenerate the nerve vessels, but that did little against the tingling with me, I spent my days sticking to Draco Malfoy’s school schedule. I pretended I couldn’t do magic, drumming my fingers idly against my left arm when someone asked me to do something, and somehow, the teachers believed me, or at least were somewhat subservient to my whims — to Draco Malfoy’s.
Or perhaps I had unknowingly been much better at holding up this whole pretence than I’d thought. Malfoy was left-handed, a little detail I’d missed, but that served me well, even if I was not, in fact, left-handed. It was even better when I realised the teachers attributed my terrible penmanship to me having to write with my dormant hand.
The only downfall to my little sob story, exaggerating my injuries, and acting like a kicked puppy, came in the form of Lucius Fucking Malfoy (or as I liked to call him; Lucious Lucius). I’d gotten somewhat used to the daily life of a schoolboy, wandering the hallowed walls of magical academia, even if the subjects were sometimes downright ridiculous, and we’d been having a double hour of Potions class when a sharp knock interrupted Snape mid-sentence. I’d been almost looking forward to the tongue-lashing whoever it was at the other side of the door would receive from Snape when Malfoy Senior stepped inside.
I believe I had turned a ghastly green pale when I watched a taller version of myself — of Draco — step into the classroom. He’d looked out of place there, robes expensive and the emeralds inlaid on his snake cane glimmering ominously in the low blue flame light of the soldering torches on the wall. His expression, an art form of viciousness and derisiveness, packed up in the tight aristocratic lines of his face, and gun-metal eyes surveyed the classroom. When his eyes met mine, I might have dropped the shrivelling with a gasp.
“Lucius?” Snape asked, just as dour and ghastly as the books described.
“Well, hello Severus, my apologies for interrupting your lesson,” Malfoy said suavely.
“No matter,” Snape answered slowly, his eyes flitting to me before settling on Malfoy Senior again.
“I’m here for my son.”
His son— which would be me. I let my imagination take a run with me, the stone floor swallowing and spewing me out at the other side of this earth, but— imagination had no place in the stare Lucius Malfoy was bestowing upon me, and I felt my shoulders lock together, fingers curling tightly around the edge of the table. Snape’s lips had pressed tightly together, and for a hopeful moment, I thought he might deny the request. Perhaps out of pure spite for daring to interrupt him? It wouldn’t be unlike him, would it?
He didn’t. Waving his hand in an apparent dismissive gesture, he nodded. “Of course, you can use my office.”
“Much appreciated,” Lucius retorted, a smile that almost seemed genuine slipping loose beneath the polished, refined surface of Lucius Malfoy’s face. He turned to me, expectance radiating from one haughty eyebrow-raising. Its twin joined a second later. “Draco?”
“Right, coming,” I answered slowly, my feet felt leaden as I got up.
It must have been the wrong thing to say because when I stepped up next to him, Malfoy’s hand clasped firmly on my shoulder. I supposed the lack of pristine etiquette and lessons on acting during tedious social engagements surrounded by commoners (or perhaps Malfoy would call them Mudbloods and Blood traitors) must have shown through that one sentence, and my limbs grew stiff. Sweat prickled the skin of the back of my neck, and I took a deep breath.
Lucius Malfoy observed me with his lips pressed together in a firm line. His hair was long, tied in a ponytail at the back of his neck, and tall. Where I was still overly slender and cheeks rounded by baby fat, he was tall and broad-shouldered. I wished his physical strength was the only thing he’d have over me, and I noted with some detached morbid curiosity that although he didn’t have the baby fat I had clinging to his cheeks, the sharpness I did have in the planes of my face, seemed to have softened in his.
“Come with, Draco.”
A shudder ran down my spine. “Right away— Father.”
He ushered me away and into a gloomy, dimly lit room with shadowy walls lined with shelves. Large glass jars filled with the slimy things Harry Potter had once described in the fifth book adorned the shelves, and I was pushed somewhat hard against a dark, rickety desk. My hands held onto it desperately.
“Father, I—”
“What is the point of all of this, boy?” Malfoy snapped. His wand was out, I supposed it was either to ensure we had the privacy, or he was actually going to hex me. The fireplace to the side lit up, and I tried to remember what I knew about the Malfoys. I knew quite a bit. If it wasn’t from the books, it had come from the internet or interviews with JK Rowling. I knew they had a house as big as a castle. Knew that before the Statue of Secrecy had passed, they had lived among Muggles as royalty (hypocrites, yes) and that their estate in Wiltshire was a gift from Muggle King William the First. I knew Lucius Malfoy had been among Voldemort’s inner circle of followers and his terrorist organisation. I knew from the movies and the books Malfoy Senior was a bit of an icicle who, in the best scenario, had no idea how to show affection and instead showered his son in luxury to make up for it, or in the worst scenario, was an abusive arsehole who let the outside world think everything was perfect. I didn’t know which one was true, so—
“Erm,” I wetted my lips. “I don’t follow— Father?”
One eyebrow twitched, and grey eyes flashed. “I had to hear from Dumbledore— DUMBLEDORE that you were injured during your first day here? I had to hear from that old coot that my son was injured, and apparently, the injury wasn’t healing properly. Do you understand what you put your mother through? Do you, foolish boy?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Don’t make it sound like a question.” He snapped.
“I’m sorry,” I answered, sounding as earnest as I could manage. “I was distracted.”
Lucius looked as if he’d like nothing more than to whack me over the head with his cane, and I took a deliberate step back, sidestepping the desk and stopping only a few centimetres from the wall.
“You were distracted?” He asked slowly, his cheeks rapidly gaining colour. “What do you mean you were distracted? What were you distracted with, if not your schooling?”
“Erm—” I tried in a panicky tone. This was going oh so well. “My arm?”
Your arm? Seriously? Nice one, Dickhead.
Malfoy turned even redder; honestly, I could read him like an open book. That wasn't a particularly good thing for a man who was an advisor to the Minister for Magic and was supposed to hide his emotions and gestures. I had to think of something to say, or I would be hexed, and my mouth turned dry. Thinking of gaining a semblance of control, I clasped my hands behind my back and tried for an apologetic look.
“I— I truly am sorry to worry you and mother.”
Malfoy didn’t look appeased yet.
“I was— my arm is still not fully recovered, and Madam Pomfrey has me on pain medication.”
“Pain medication?” Malfoy echoed and tilted his head. “What do you mean by pain medication?”
“Oh, I’m getting potions to help with it.”
“I am perfectly aware of what pain medication entails, Draco.”
At least, he wasn’t aware I wasn’t Draco, but before I could celebrate that little win, the door opened, and a very flushed, very regal blonde woman stepped inside. I knew who she was even though she looked nothing like the woman who played her in the movies. Narcissa Malfoy was tall and slender with long blonde hair piled up in a problematic ado on top of her head. I hadn’t expected to see her here (any more than I had expected Lucius Fucking Malfoy to show up) and stared helplessly at her.
She looked ruffled. I would later learn that she’d made a pitstop at Dumbledore’s office first. I guess no one envied Albus Dumbledore at that moment, and as I looked at her, I certainly had no idea how to handle her.
“Uh— hello?”
“That is no way to greet your Mother!” Lucius snapped, but his wife was already shushing him.
“My poor baby!” she whispered and hurried across the room, her marine blue robe swirling delicately around her like the wings of a butterfly. I ducked my head when she scrutinised me, and a second later, I found myself in her arms, nose pressed against her shoulder. I didn’t think it could get any more awkward had I tried.
“I was so worried!” She gasped out, stroking my hair and— I hadn’t had a mother figure hugging me like I would turn into dust any second in— well, ever, so I might not have handled it as well as I could’ve.
“I’m fine— Just my arm is not.”
Pale, cool fingers splayed against my cheeks, and Narcissa Malfoy softly cupped my face. I wasn’t even as tall as her, my head only reaching her chin, and I looked up at her through the fringe of blond lashes. “Why didn’t you write us about that terrible beast?”
“It— I thought it would sort itself out on its own.”
“My brave, brave boy.” She whispered and turned to her husband, moving around the room with a feline poise I’d never seen on someone before. I wondered absentmindedly if the dancing quality to one’s walk was what social etiquette for Witches demanded. Even in the privacy of Severus Snape’s office, Narcissa Malfoy carried the outward image of perfection. I wondered worriedly how much this slender woman would have in common with her insane older sister. After all, blood ran thicker than water. And I watched with genuine discomfort how the two blond adults conversed without words. I doubted it would bode any better for the Hippogriff than it had in the original timeline.
“Mother?”
She turned towards me, face slack yet beautiful and worried. “Don’t worry, Sweetheart. Consider the beast dead!”
I was so fucked.
I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten rid of Draco’s parents. I assumed with empty platitudes and promises but felt lightheaded once I saw them leave the castle. They hadn’t noticed I was acting differently. Or they’d considered it was due to the accident, and I couldn’t keep relying on that. So, instead, I spent every afternoon following that day, up in the library, curled up in a chair by the glowing fire with one book or another in my lap. The entire weekend was spent in that same library, seeking refuge between the large towering bookcases, I worked on homework I barely understood, or at least, on magic I couldn’t do. I tore through Draco’s notes, paid attention in every class, and tried to smile politely whenever someone talked to me, insisting on being polite and not irritating anyone. I knew Draco Malfoy was barely ever polite, but— Fuck, I couldn’t even lift a feather with magic, so I didn’t torment a single student, didn’t needle the Gryffindors — who expected me to whenever we had classes together or passed each other in the hallways — and didn’t throw slurs in the faces of any teacher. Although I didn’t think Draco was that impolite to teachers, one couldn’t be too sure.
I needed as much goodwill from the teachers as possible, especially when I was barely keeping my head above the water during classes. Although I managed well enough during Potions — I could follow instructions, thank you very much — and handled subjects like Arithmancy and Ancient Runes well enough, but the magical classes? Well, let’s say I couldn’t keep relying on my pitiful arm forever.
People were bound to start noticing I didn’t act like Malfoy. I’d never really liked Draco Malfoy. I’d tolerated him in the books and sometimes enjoyed his witty comebacks. I had sympathised with him when he got into deep water in the sixth book and never really believed you could blame a child for his upbringing, or in a different sense from being cohered into a direction he might not have chosen when he wasn’t under duress.
However, Draco Malfoy was a bully and a braggart. And above that all, he’d been smart enough. He earned high marks — probably expected from him — and it would only be long before people ask questions. I could learn the magic theory and answer academic questions correctly, but people would become suspicious unless I started doing the magic.
That was if they wouldn’t become suspicious of my behaviour instead. Bullying an orphan who came from an abusive household, a ginger who had inferiority issues and a girl who I could think little wrong with unless you considered her mane of hair that was always in the way and your line of vision or perhaps the big front teeth? They didn’t hold much interest for me.
However, if I were honest with Hermione Granger's attitude, I could imagine how one might have rubbed her unfortunate teeth under her nose. Granger was a true know-it-all who liked to sprout out answers before anyone even had the chance to lift their hand. Even if you wanted to be called upon and raised your hand, Granger would shout out the answer, and when we shared classes, she’d turn towards me with an expression that so obviously said, ‘in your face’; I could only stare at her with a frown. She seemed to think of me as a rival. I’d almost laughed at that the first time I noticed her holier-than-thou expression because it was a thing I’d shared with my sister. Sibling rivalry, fuck, and I doubted Granger was even aware of it. She wasn’t the only one, though, who acted like me being here meant something more than it should.
The weirdest behaviour came from the two boys Draco had been friends with. Crabbe and Goyle didn’t just acknowledge my existence. They followed me everywhere—and I bloody well mean EV-ERY-WHERE. I couldn’t even venture out to the lavatory alone. They were like a couple of dogs, like my dog, who followed me anywhere and showered me in affectionally little nips and licks. At least, Crabbe and Goyle didn’t lick me — although had I asked, I’m sure they would have obliged — and weren’t much for conversationalists. If anything, they shoved their homework to me to proofread and hung to my every word like a Catholic would hang onto the words of the pope.
As time progressed, tiring hours turned into tiring days and weeks, and I still did not know who Crabbe was and who Goyle was. However, I feared that if they kept following me around the way they did, I would be nearly homicidal by the end of the semester—that is if I wasn’t killed before by a moving staircase or perhaps flattened by the Whomping Willow.
Was it wrong of me that I almost hoped for that?
TO BE CONTINUED...