The Slug Tattoo
Draco slowly returned from sleep and was just about to bury his hand in his pants, going for his usual morning wank when he stopped himself, remembering where he was, or rather who he was. Wanking would literally mean giving Potter a hand job. Before he’d had time to decide if that’d be an interesting or disturbing experience Weasley called for him to get out of bed because he was hungry and could kill for some egg and sausages.
Draco sighed, Weasley talking about sausages next to him sure wasn’t going to get him off so he kept his hands out of his pants and got up to face the challenge of dressing himself in Potter’s clothes, which turned out to be harder than imagined as there appeared to be a very effective extension charm on Potter’s trunk. He soon gave up on finding a respectable outfit and settled for any clothes at all.
“Accio socks” he cried for about the tenth time and watched a red and blue one fly towards him. Merlin, how many socks could someone own, and what were the odds that none of the ones he’d found so far were matching?
“What are you doing? I’m starving.” Weasley wined.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m trying to find two ruddy socks that look the same.”
“Why?” Weasley asked curiously. “Do you even have matching ones? I thought you always mismatched, you know, because of Dobby.” He looked uncomfortable as he said the last words, as if he expected Draco to go into some kind of tantrum.
Draco stared at him for a moment, then decided it was too early to dwell on whatever sock fetish Potter had and paired a black and blue one that were close enough in color. “Accio pants” he said and suspiciously studied the black boxers that soared out of the trunk, at least they didn’t appear to have been knitted by an elf.
Perhaps he should have been more upset about the prospect of putting on Potter’s underwear but the way he saw it, it was Potter’s ass going in Potter’s pants, Draco just happened to be wearing both of them.
*****
Harry had slept badly and perhaps that was why he found himself on the floor, hit by a stinging hex, three younger students he didn’t know staring down at him gleefully. “What the fuck?” he mumbled, perplexed rather than angry.
“That’s right Malfoy, we got you at last, told you we would” one of them said, still pointing his wand at him.
“Why did you do that for?” Harry asked, though looking down at the hand bearing Malfoy’s ring with his family crest, he was beginning to get why.
The kids scattered at the sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor and he watched himself appear around the corner, his eyebrows wrinkled in a very Malfoy-ish way.
“I told you, you need to watch your back” Malfoy said and to Harry’s surprise offered a helping hand, pulling him to his feet. “You’re embarrassing me when you fall down like that, they were only fourth years for Merlin’s sake. I have no idea how you managed to vanquish the dark lord.” He brushed some dust off the Slytherin robe that Harry didn’t even want to imagine the price of.
He considered telling Malfoy that if he was so keen to avoid embarrassment, maybe he shouldn’t have pled allegiance to a murderer in the first place but he was distracted by Malfoy taking his left wrist into his hand. He looked down, not realizing he was bleeding until now.
The wound healed at once at Malfoy’s muttered incantation. “That one is good for minor cuts and bruises but if you just keep your shield charm ready you won’t need it.”
“Er, thanks” Harry said touching the place where the cut had been. The skin felt much smoother than his own, or perhaps it simply was that Malfoy’s fingers were more sensitive. They looked different too, like they were made for piano playing or petting very small kittens. He studied the perfectly almond shaped fingernails with fascination.
“What the fuck” came Malfoy’s voice and Harry blushed for having been caught staring at his hands as if he was high on mushrooms from greenhouse three, but when he looked up, Malfoy’s gaze was fixed on his head.
Without warning he was pushed into a hidden alcove.
“What are you doing?” he hissed and then went completely still as a pair of hands brushed his scalp.
“What have you done to my hair, Potter?”
“Nothing” Harry said truthfully. He’d avoided looking at his face in a mirror as much as he could in order to keep his sanity and hadn’t bother to touch his hair. He assumed it looked the way it always did on Malfoy, slicked back like it was glued to his head.
“Completely uneven” he heard Malfoy mutter as he combed a stray curl behind Harry’s ear. His face close enough for Harry to make out the stubble on his chin. It probably hadn’t occurred to Malfoy to shave, Harry’s cheeks had felt smooth like alabaster this morning and he assumed they’d stay that way for the rest of the week. Since it wasn’t unusual for him to go without shaving for a few days he didn’t see any reason to mention it. Staring into his own face was however disturbing and he closed his eyes.
“So messy, I’m just gonna fix the worst.” The hands raking through his hair were surprisingly gentle, he assumed Malfoy wouldn’t have been that careful if he’d touched Harry when he was looking like Harry. Not that he ever would, unless it was to punch him or stomp on his face.
The fingers disappeared from his scalp and for a split second he missed the touch. He opened his eyes, slightly dizzy. “Done?” he asked, trying to sound as if he’d found the whole thing annoying and not pleasant at all.
Malfoy shrugged. “It’ll have to do. And please try not to embarrass me any more today.”
That was easier said than done, Harry thought, since the next thing on his schedule was potions.
*****
Draco forgot he was supposed to suck at this. To make up for his mistake he added a handful of mustard seeds to give his potion an orange tone instead of the canary yellow it was supposed to have. It was still too good for a brew made by Potter, who was sitting on the other side of the room, making a mess in his cauldron. He’d been throwing glances in Draco’s direction, probably trying to copy his work but by the look of it, all he’d managed to do was get the mustard seeds in and not only was his potion bright orange but also had the consistency of clay rather than the thin watery liquid of Draco’s. He was desperately trying to fix it by stirring feverishly, which of course only made the brew thicken further. Normally it amused Draco to watch the various ways Potter managed to fuck up in class but it was considerably less funny when he was looking like Draco.
As if he had felt Draco glaring at him, Potter looked up at him and mouthed sorry and Draco rolled his eyes.
“What’s up with you and Malfoy?” Weasley asked.
Draco jumped, he’d forgotten he was sitting next to Potter’s irritating friends.
“What? Nothing” he said absentmindedly. Weasley had been awfully chatty at the beginning of class, no wonder Potter always mixed up his ingredients if he had to listen to these rants. Draco had simply ignored him and after a few minutes of giving him the silent treatment he’d been left to work in peace but that pleasantness seemed to have run out now.
Potter had to sit with Draco’s friends too of course, but he got a fair better deal out of it. Blaise usually left him to work on his own, though at the moment he was watching Potter’s brew with a sneer and leaned over to say something which made Potter glare at him angrily. Blaise had a sharp tongue but if Draco had produced a potion looking like that, he would well have deserved whatever taunt Potter was getting.
“Malfoy is fucking up today, isn’t he” Weasley said next to him and Draco wondered if it’d be possible to get Potter into a hidden corner after class and punch him in the face, though it would sort of mean punching himself so maybe not.
They watched Potter spill orange goo on Draco’s robe. “I wonder if he’s finally snapped.” Before Draco could think of a suitable retort Weasley turned his attention to his cauldron. “How did you get it like that?”
“Mustard seeds” Draco said, then realizing Weasley hadn’t meant what he’d done wrong but was actually impressed by this substandard brew.
“That’s not in the book, is it?” He flipped through the pages, then inhaled sharply. “You didn’t get the prince’s book back, did you?”
This made no sense to Draco but he could tell it meant something significant as Granger’s head twisted, for the first time taking her eyes of her own potion, which of course was a perfect thin canary yellow. “Oh Harry, please tell me you didn’t!”
“Eum, no?” Draco tried.
“You couldn’t have” she said tentatively. “I was sure that room wouldn’t work after the fiendfire but…”
Draco could feel the hair on his neck rise as he realized what room she was referring to. Whatever that prince book was, it couldn’t be good.
“Look, it isn’t even that great, it’s bloody orange” he said when he noticed Granger’s eyes still lingered on his potion. “I added mustard seeds.”
She nodded slowly. “Why did you?”
Draco shrugged. “Mistook them for anis seeds.”
“It’s not supposed to have that either” she sighed but at least she seemed to think that Potter was back to his usual dimwitted self and dropped it.
“You know what’s strange?” she said after a while.
Draco shook his head, fearing she was on to him.
“That you are so useless at potions but excellent at cooking, it’s basically the same thing you know.”
Potter could cook? That was strange indeed. The guy on the other side of the room who’d just managed to turn his potion into cement did not look like he could produce fine dining. It was almost painful to watch and he turned back to Granger who was still sneering at him.
“Hey, at least I did better than..W..Ron” Draco said, remembering to call Weasley by his first name at the last second. “His brew looks like a melted gnome.”
For a second, no one said anything and Draco wondered if Potter was too noble to make jokes about magical creatures or maybe Granger had a club about gnome rights called GUCK or something, but then they burst out laughing and he joined in. It was weird sitting here, joking with two Gryffindors, but not totally unpleasant.
Potter turned to stare at him bewildered and Draco couldn’t resist giving him a wink.
*****
Harry reluctantly watched Malfoy leave with his two best friends meanwhile he was left on his own to walk to defense against the dark arts. He supposed he should be thankful Zabini had abandoned him somewhere in the tumult of the getting out of the classroom.
There was a twinge of guilt for having messed up in potions, not that Malfoy should have expected anything else seeing to Harry’s achievements this year, but nevertheless it was Harry’s fault that Slughorn had looked at him with pure contempt and given him a well-deserved zero that would go in Malfoy’s file. Something he suspected wouldn’t have happened if he’d looked like himself, he usually managed to talk his way out of it with Slughorn but apparently that was easier when you were not wearing Malfoy’s face. In the same way it was evident that Malfoy would not have been given the praise he did for his potion, had Slughorn not thought he was Harry. Malfoy hadn’t even been up to his usual standards today, probably on purpose, yet Slughorn had awarded him ten points without hesitation.
Sitting through defense class didn’t make him feel any better. The tables were turned here, this wasn’t where Malfoy usually shone but it was by far Harry’s best subject. But when he excelled at producing a wandless shield charm in his first attempt no one seemed to notice, except for Zabini who threw him a stunned look.
Meanwhile, he watched Malfoy struggle at the other end of the classroom, getting a helping hand from Professor Windwhistle but no hint of criticism. He couldn’t hear what Hermione was whispering but he was sure it wasn’t anything like the snide remarks Zabini had given him earlier.
*****
By the afternoon Draco’s suspicions had been confirmed; being Harry Potter was a walk in the park. If he did well, his achievements were raised to the skies - Slughorn was probably composing an epic about his mediocre brew from this morning - and if he messed up, he was simply given a pat on the back, no criticism whatsoever. No wonder Potter was doing so bad academically, no one was pushing him.
And everyone was being nice to him, so nice that it bordered on annoying. It was all smiles and cheers everywhere he went. Walking the corridors at the wrong time of the day meant wading through crowds of admiring first years who seemed too starstruck to do much but ogle him and then there were the slightly older ones who were brave enough to approach him and seemed to have made a sport out of getting a word with the chosen one. He had to endure stupid questions like that of his favorite quidditch team, (to which Draco had no idea of the correct answer but Potter was now publicly rooting for his own favorites, Puddlemere United,) and more personal ones like when he was going to marry the she-Weasel (here Draco only offered a strained smile, holding back on a suggestion to get the fuck out of his way because it didn’t seem a very Potter thing to say).
So perhaps there were parts about being Potter that weren’t great but he’d trade the contemptuous stares he usually received for the glances of curiosity and admiration any day. And his right hand was no longer constantly gripping his wand ready to throw a shield charm because no one was aiming hexes at the chosen one’s back.
There were other benefits too. If there was something he wanted, all he needed to do was ask for it since people would go out of their way to please the savior. So far, he’d been able to copy Padma Patil’s answers for charms and had a Ravenclaw he didn’t even know the name of give him her bag of sweets. Apparently a simple are those acid pops was all it took.
Draco decided to use this newly won freedom to skip transfiguration and head into Hogsmede. Potter wouldn’t like that, but it wasn’t like he was going to get into trouble for it. And Draco would finally be welcome into all the shops he wished to visit. He could even order a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks without Madame Rosmerta looking daggers at him.
When he entered Tomes and Scrolls he almost though the charm had worn off and that he was back to his old self as everyone stopped in their movements and stared at him.
“Mr Potter!” came a delighted voice and he realized these people weren’t looking at him with contempt but in awe. Somehow the effect was sort of similar.
After browsing the shelves for a few minutes the skin on his neck was starting to prickle. For every book he pulled out there was someone who turned to him and claimed they’d read it, wanted to read it or had simply heard of it. This wasn’t doing any good he thought, heading for the counter, telling the salesperson that even if he did enjoy their selection he wouldn’t hesitate to do his shopping elsewhere if he couldn’t be left to browse in peace. After that he more or less had the whole store to himself.
He continued his shopping spree in a similar fashion, then headed into the Three Broomsticks where he was immediately served a glass of oak matured mead on the house. It might have been Potter’s favorite drink but it certainly wasn’t Draco’s and he wasn’t late to have it exchanged for the butterbeer he’d been craving. That too free of charge.
Potter had never really got the hang of being famous, he mused, sipping his drink. He always got that troubled look on his face when the attention centered around him, but it all came down to him not being able to work things to his advantage. Draco on the other hand was king of that.
While Rosmerta chatted with him as if he was an old friend and not someone who’d thrown an unforgivable at her, he studied the clientele. The pub was full of civilized people, not the drunkards at Hog’s Head. Why Potter went to that dodgy pub when he could come here and be served decent drinks on the house was beyond Draco’s comprehension.
No one had approached him yet so he hadn’t needed to tell Rosmerta to keep her customers at bay but several people were watching him with interest, some even with a hint of desire.
It would be quite easy to get laid if you were Harry Potter he mused, again another example of how Potter didn’t understand how to work his fame. And Draco had yet to get laid, unless you counted him messing around with Blaise and he was determined not to count that.
He caught the eye of a reasonably attractive dark-haired guy on the other side of the room who looked to be about the same age as him but whom he’d never seen in the castle. The guy offered a tentative smile and as soon as Draco flashed one in return, he made his way over.
“Do you mind?”
Draco didn’t so he shook his head and gave the chair opposite his a kick so that there was room for the guy to slide down on it. It was hardly a gesture worthy of a pure blood but it seemed like something Potter would do.
“Jaques”, he held out an elegant hand with long, lean, almost feminine fingers. Mesmerized, Draco shook it.
“You’re Harry Potter, aren’t you?”
“Yes” Draco lied, realizing he’d forgotten his manners completely. There was a French accent to the guy’s voice that he found somewhat distracting.
“The war hero?” Jaques went on and Draco made an annoyed grunt. Of course he would want to talk about that. People sure weren’t letting him forget about what had taken place last year and he realized he’d been kind of naïve thinking he’d get a break from it this week. He didn’t get why anyone would want to bring up the war on a night out though, from his perspective it had been kind of a downer.
“Thought I recognized you from a magazine.”
“Mm” Draco said in a bored voice. He was sure there were more interesting things about Potter than him camping with Weasley for eight months and then flicking an expelliarmus at the dark lord. He half considered telling Jaques to piss off but then the guy made an apologetic shrug.
“I don’t know much about it, I didn’t go to school here. Let’s talk about something more fun.” Jaques watched him hopefully and his face broke into a smile when Draco gave an approving nod.
“So you went to Beauxbatons then?”
His pronounciation of the French school must have impressed because Jaques nodded eagerly and switched language. “Oui, vouz parlez francais?”
“Non” Draco said reluctantly. He loved chatting away in French but Potter was a pleb, barely mastering to speak English properly so he doubted he’d be fluent in any other language.
Soon he learned that Jaques was of pureblood decent, had been born in Britain but his family had moved to the continent just after he was born. Draco listened with interest, taking in the guy sitting opposite him, moving his elegant hands in sweeping gestures as he spoke. If his father had done as many other pureblood families after the first war and left the country, that could have been him, relaxed and confident, with a lovely tan from the French riviera, carelessly chatting up the scarhead in a bar with a fabulous accent that he was sure would give even a straight bloke like Potter at least half a boner. But no, Lucius had to remain in grey, damp England, putting himself right back in the mess at first chance, fucking everything up a second time.
He knocked back his drink, swallowing his bitterness together with the shot of firewhiskey that had somehow ended up in front of him and focused on Jaques talking about a library in Marseille that had an entire floor devoted to books about dragons.
Draco, slightly tipsy by now, found everything about Jaques, from his stories of winetasting in Provence to the way he licked his lips, utterly fascinating. Jaques seemed rather interested in him too, asking all sorts of questions about him that he didn’t know the answers to. He wasn’t late to use his imagination though and when asked if he had any tattoos he told him there was one of a slug on his left buttock. For all he knew it could be true, he hadn’t checked out Potter’s behind. Perhaps he should. Potter’s ass was definitely one of his better assets, Draco mused as he pulled his robe around himself to cover his bulging crotch. Being drunk always made him slightly randy.
As Jaques went on to interrogate him about his plans for the future, he pondered whether he would be willing to let Draco fuck him in the loo or if he was the kind of guy who’d want to do it the other way around. Judging by how he was eating every word Draco spoke with a hungry look in his eyes, he had the feeling it was the latter. Well, Draco wasn’t about to let some stranger put his cock up his ass. Not that he wasn’t curious but he didn’t like the thought of giving himself up to someone like that. Though perhaps it wouldn’t feel like giving something up when he wasn’t in his own body. Now might actually be the perfect opportunity to try. The thought had him choke on the firewhiskey but he managed to play it off as a cough.
Potter would of course be furious if he found out, but he wouldn’t, would he? Since Draco had chosen an evening of frivolity in favor of searching through the library, he had no clue how this spell worked. What if he got some weird STD, would he or Potter be the one to get it when they changed back? Or both of them? Could Potter’s ass feel sore from Draco getting fucked? He felt a hiccup coming and put his glass aside. All things considered, it was probably better not to find out. Coming to that conclusion made him feel ridiculously relieved.
Jaques was staring intently at him and he realized he’d zooned out for quite a while. “Sorry, what was that?” he asked.
“Just wondered if you wanted to head somewhere more private, I wouldn’t mind getting a look at that tattoo” he said in a low voice that made the hair of Draco’s neck rise.
“Oh” Draco said, feeling a twinge of panic. “No, erm..I should be getting back actually.” He made a non-too elegant slide down the bar stool and found his way out in the cold air that hit him like a sobering charm. When he’d inhaled sharp breaths for about a minute and no one had followed him out the door, he relaxed and began his walk back to the castle.
He whistled as he strolled the streets, thinking it’d been quite a good afternoon. Perhaps he could repeat it again tomorrow.
*****
Harry was fed up with Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott by the evening, he didn’t know how Malfoy put up with them. Perhaps he talked back to them like they did to him, perhaps he found it funny, Harry sure didn’t.
Parkinson was friendly enough, but she gave him the creeps. Being Malfoy’s girlfriend, she probably expected snogging, or worse, so he’d sneaked off to the library as soon as he’d finished dinner and didn’t head back to the dormitory until late, happy to find Nott and Zabini asleep, not making any jokes about wanking.
He’d spent the evening searching for books about human transformation but hadn’t found anything that remotely resembled what had happened to them. There was of course a chance that he’d been looking in the wrong section, he usually relied on Hermione for help with these things, but even if she’d been just a few tables away, he couldn’t exactly approach her while looking like Malfoy.
The real Malfoy was nowhere to be seen, possibly hiding somewhere, sulking, about as fed up with being Harry as Harry was with being him. Though watching him throughout the day, Malfoy had seemed to get on with things pretty well. Harry had caught him laughing with Ron several times and at lunch he had been huddled over a book with Hermione and in no way was his face giving away disgust at hanging out with blood traitors and mudbloods.
Malfoy probably didn’t think that anymore, Harry mused where he was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. He was sure the war had changed him, the way it had somehow changed them all. It was just unclear what Malfoy had changed into, his face had been practically unreadable this term.
Unable to settle to sleep in the unfamiliar place, he mulled the day over in his head. It’d been a weird one. He had managed not to get hexed by any more students but it wasn’t for their lack of trying and every time a wand pointed in his direction it sent a prickle to his skin familiar to what he’d felt throughout the war where sleep had been light and the need to stay alert of the dangers lurking around every corner constantly present. Malfoy must have gotten that too, his home filling with death eaters, werewolves and dodgy snatchers, but while Harry had slowly been able to resettle into the warm safety embedded by the castle walls this term, the threats must have kept coming for Malfoy, following him through the corridors. He chewed on the no longer almond shaped nail of his thumb, wondering if Malfoy had been right in what he’d said last night. Perhaps being Draco Malfoy was worse than being Harry Potter.
There were things in his own life he was happy to do without though. No matter how much he wanted to jinx the Slytherins, it was a relief to get a break from Hermione’s open concern and Ron’s nervous tiptoeing, as if he was afraid Harry would break or explode if he behaved normal around him. And he could definitely do without Ginny scanning his face from across the common room, the look in her eyes having slowly turned from questioning to impatient as the weeks had passed.
The guilt for the relief of being rid of the people who were the closest thing he had to a family hit him like a stinging hex and he wrapped his arms around himself in a pathetic and familiar attempt of self-comfort. Then he froze, realizing he was practically hugging Malfoy, holding tight to the body he’d determinedly kept his hands away from so far, using spells whenever possible to avoid touching.
In the darkness he let his hands wander, feeling a body thin and shivering from the damp coldness in the dungeons underneath his fingertips. Ribs easily traceable, a flat stomach, a hint of muscles beneath smooth skin. As his fingers moved up his chest the smoothness turned tarnished and he immediately put his hands above the bedcovers and threw a warming charm, trying very hard to rid his head of thoughts.
*****
Draco’s good mood quickly changed as he walked into the Gryffindor common room and Granger charged towards him. This time she didn’t hug him. He resisted the urge to put a silencing spell on her as she started to tell him off. From what he could make out she was furious at him for disappearing without a word and for skipping transfiguration. Big deal.
Assuming Potter wouldn’t tell her to mind her own business and stalk off, he defied his impulses and remained in front of her giving his best impression of a sad puppy, batting Potter’s long black eyelashes and widening the bright green eyes, telling her he hadn’t been feeling well. Apparently it worked. The yelling came to an abrupt halt and instead her arms folded around him in a firm embrace, which he didn’t know was better or worse.
“Are you having nightmares again?” she asked quietly and released him.
He looked at her bewildered, Potter was having nightmares? “About what?” he said stupidly.
She raised her eyebrows. “Well, the war I would have presumed.”
Oh, that. Perhaps that would give you nightmares even if you were on the winning side, he’d never really thought about it that way.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked kindly.
“Hm, thanks but no” he said, and she appeared caught between deciding to leave it at that or push him on the subject. He took advantage of her moment of indecision by turning on his heel and heading to the dormitory after throwing a quick goodnight over his shoulder.
Draco would have been perfectly happy to dive behind the bed curtains and rest his spinning head on the pillow - he probably shouldn’t have had all that firewhiskey on an empty stomach - but instead he found Weasley and Longbottom waiting for him. He tried his best not to scowl but to offer what he thought was a friendly smile.
“Did Hermione give you a hard time?” Longbottom asked.
“A little” Draco said shrugging. “What’s that?” he wondered, catching sight of what looked like a picnic basket by the foot of Weasley’s bed. “Going camping?”
Weasley grinned, “figured you might be hungry since you skipped dinner.” He started to unload a bunch of sandwiches, a bottle of pumpkin juice and a massive piece of treacle tart, among other things.
“Where did you get all that?” he asked astonished.
“From the houselves in the kitchen, of course” Weasley said, throwing him a chicken leg that he just managed to catch. “Your reflexes are getting worse, you’d better practice before next game.”
Draco scowled, he didn’t think he could be blamed for not expecting someone to throw greasy food at him in his dormitory, this was completely uncivilized. And what where they supposed to do now? Eat it with their hands while sitting on their beds? Longbottom obviously thought so, he was already biting into a sandwich, dripping mayonnaise all over his bedspread.
No one ever brought food into Slytherin, and for good reason. He supposed it was kind of thoughtful though and he was hungry after all.