Draco Malfoy has a boring life.
He wakes up, drinks tea (black), greets his mother on the way out of the Manor, goes to the Ministry, pines endlessly for a bushy-haired witch, moans about it to Theo, returns home, repeats.
Truly, it’s the stuff dreams are made of. In fact, anyone who would have told him five years ago that he would become a besotted idiot in love with the only witch who could not care less about him in anything other than a professional capacity, he would have laughed in their faces. Harder still if he’d been told he would start a career at the Ministry (the Ministry!) to be close to her. Appalling, really.
And yet, the only one laughing now is Theodore Nott.
Because Draco Malfoy is a besotted idiot with an idiotic career at the Ministry, desperately in love with a bushy-haired witch, who has to accept any mission Nott gives him, lest his “infatuation” gets out.
Theo has therefore been dubbed Evil Underlord by Draco, which only serves to brighten Theo’s day when he hears his nickname passively-aggressively whispered in the halls.
—
Theodore Nott presides over his court like the Evil Underlord he is.
His favorite pasttime involves sending his minions, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy, on deadly missions in the hopes that one of them will get seriously injured and force the other to profess their undying feelings of devotion. So far, Theodore Nott has not been successful.
Unfortunately, his minions make quite the pair, and neither one has come close to death’s door recently. A shame, truly.
What Theodore Nott doesn’t know, is that serious injuries aren’t what’s about to bring Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy together.
Polyjuice is.
—
It starts with an easy enough mission. Dark wizards must be found, arrested, trialed, and put in Azkaban. But on that particular day, Granger isn’t feeling well. Her spells are lackluster at best, dangerously useless at worst, and Draco is staring at Granger like the besotted idiot in love he is, and neither of them are feeling at capacity. Which is why, when the dark wizards somehow turn the situation around and manage to overpower them with a few simple jinxes, stealing their wands and trapping them in a makeshift prison, Granger only sighs dramatically and slides against the wall. Draco rests his head against it, banging his forehead a few times against the solid surface.
“We’re idiots,” he says.
Granger sighs again. “We’re idiots.”
“Expelliarmus. Expelliarmus . A third-year could have deflected that, but no. Fell for it. Like a pair of idiots.”
Granger nods. Draco looks at her, and slides down the wall to join her in her misery.
“So.” Draco looks at her expectantly.
“If you give me—” she closes her eyes, seems to perform Arithmancy in her head (which is a fabulous way to turn Draco on, by the way), “—an hour, I can probably wandlessly Transfigure this into something, and we can get out. I’m— depleted. I don’t think I can do anything right now.”
“The Brightest Witch Of Our Age, depleted?”
“Shut up.”
Draco doesn’t shut up.
“But you’re never out of ideas. Or magic.”
“I am now.”
Draco looks at her in shock.
“Shameful.” He shakes his head.
Granger doesn’t even crack a smile. If anything, she sighs a bigger sighs than all of the previous sighs.
“Look, Malfoy, if I needed your advice, I would have asked for it. I’ve had a shit day, and I feel like crap, and this—” she points to the makeshift prison they’re stuck in, “—isn’t improving it in any way.”
Draco would like to mention that she has never looked like shit a day in her life, because Granger is the most beautiful witch he’s ever seen. He doesn’t say anything.
“Shall I save us both?” He asks instead. This is his time to shine. Show her he can be useful. Husband material, as it were. Granger just waves her hand in his direction and goes to rest her head on her knees.
“Please.”
Draco doesn’t need more encouragement. A plan has formed. He is ready.
“Right.” He swoops in, steals a hair from Granger (she doesn’t even feel it, but then again, there are so many), grabs one from his own head, and picks up the Polyjuice potion from an extended pocket in his robe they keep in handy cases.
The dark wizards didn’t even check his pockets. Blasphemy.
“Granger, pass me your Polyjuice, please.”
She doesn’t even look up.
“Why.”
“You asked me to save us.”
“And you need Polyjuice because…?”
Granger lifts her head slightly, angling her head and resting her cheek on her knee. She looks at him, and Draco becomes a besotted idiot again. An idiot with a plan.
“Because I will become you and suavely distract one of the mean wizards until I can steal the keys and get us out.”
“You want to seduce them… as me?”
“That’s what I said.”
“That’s…” she stutters. Shakes her head. “You can’t.”
Draco raises his eyebrows in confusion.
“I can’t?”
“I’m—” she lifts her hands towards her face, looking at him like he’s grown a second head.
“You’re…?” he encourages, unhelpfully.
The unsteady “Me?” comes out like a squeak. Draco’s eyebrows lift even higher. Bewildered. He is bewildered.
“You?”
“Me.” She repeats, now defeated. Hides her face in her knees again. Sighs.
That won’t do.
Draco drops Granger’s hair in his Polyjuice and downs the whole ungodly concoction in one go. He coughs a few times, feels himself shrink—an unfortunate feeling—, tests his newly formed tiny toes and tiny hands, and nudges Granger with his shoulder.
“Your Polyjuice, please.”
Granger doesn’t even fight it. She digs into her pocket and hands it to him, watches him drop the blond hair, and downs it with a shrug.
Something’s definitely up with his witch. She barely flinches as she suddenly grows a foot taller, grows slightly —she really doesn’t look her best today— paler, and her hair turns from warm brown to ice blond.
Right. Time to shine.
“Watch this,” he says as her, standing up. Smiling up at Granger-as-Draco (Merlin, he looks amazing ), Draco whooshes his long brown hair over his shoulder and takes a focusing breath.
—
Hermione is baffled.
It takes a few minutes, at most, before they’re out of the prison, wands in hand, dark wizards jinxed. She didn’t even know that she could be that seductive. That… sensual? Sexual? She struggles to think of the correct word, but they’re certainly not any she would use to describe herself.
She watches on as Malfoy-as-Hermione finishes with the dark wizards, flicks dust away from his impeccable robes and waves his wand with a flourish in her direction.
“And voilà,” Malfoy-as-Hermione says, primly.
“That was… impressive,” she says, the deep tone of her voice startling her.
“I don’t think it would have worked quite as well as me”, Malfoy-as-Hermione muses, and Hermione nods, though she isn’t sure why. Frankly, she doesn’t know what to say. “Shall I take us back?” he asks.
“Um, yes.”
“Great.”
He lifts his (her) arm to her (him). They Disapparate.
—
It takes a little while, but within a few hours they’ve got the baddies awaiting trial, and all is right in the world. Well, all besides the fact that Granger is still…unwell. Down? Tired? That, and the fact that he is facing a pressing issue. And that simply is Not Possible. Because he’s still inhabiting Granger’s body. And what he needs to do is simply Not Done in Pureblood Society. Or any society for that matter. And he needs someone to find a solution.
“There’s a problem,” Draco-as-Granger says, entering Theo’s office, Granger-as-Draco in toe.
“Is there?” Theo asks matter-of-factly, looking up from whatever parchment he’d been dealing with.
Draco-as-Granger’s tone is glacial. “Yes.”
Granger-as-Draco doesn’t say anything, looking worse for wear. Draco-as-Granger squints. Whatis up with his witch? But by Merlin, he looks gorgeous.
“Do tell.” Theo prompts.
“The Polyjuice isn’t fading”, Draco-as-Granger barks abruptly.
“It’s not?”
“It’s been hours. Hours. ”
“And?”
“—I need to pee.”
One of Theo’s eyebrows raises aristocratically. “Do you see me holding a wand to your head?” he asks dismissively. “Go.”
“I can’t.”
“Whyever not?”
“I’m—” Draco-as-Granger gestures to himself, “—her.”
Theo leans back in his chair, fingers intertwining under his chin.
“Yes, I can see that.”
Draco-as-Granger sputters, “I can’t— you’re— it’s—unseemly” he settles on, gesturing to his lower body. “Fix it.”
Theo fixes Draco-as-Granger with an indulgent stare.
“It’s Polyjuice. The effects may be slightly stronger, but it’s just a potion. It’ll fade once your bodies burn it out of your systems, and you’ll both go back to normal. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m quite busy.”
The dismissal is clear. Draco-as-Granger turns to Granger-as-Draco.
“Can you fix it?” he asks, desperate now.
“I’m, um. No. Yes. I don’t know,” she says, and Draco’s suspicion reaches new heights.
“What is going on with you, Granger?”
“Uh?” She looks down at him (a strange feeling, being small) listlessly. Merlin, what is wrong with her?
He stalks towards her (him), gripping her shoulder (which, he notices in passing, makes her body reach up . He likes that).
“You,” he emphasizes, shaking her (him) slightly, “need to sort yourself out. You’ve been off all day, got us expelliarmus’d away—”
“—You’ve done what now?” interrupts Theo, suddenly interested in the conversation. Draco-as-Granger glares and grabs Granger-as-Draco’s mostly limp arm, dragging his own body out of Theo’s office.
“Thanks for nothing, Satan,” he sneers in passing, which doesn’t serve to do much with the way his (her) voice sounds. The door slams on their way out. Draco, unfazed, keeps dragging Granger’s long, limp-ish body through the corridors and into his office.
“What’s going on?” he prompts again, waving his dainty hand in Granger-as-Draco’s general direction, pee promptly forgotten. There is a mystery afoot, and he is determined to solve it. Now.
Granger-as-Draco sighs. She plops his body on one of the fancy leather sofas he keeps in his office, and closes her eyes.
“I don’t really want to talk about it with you,” she says.
“Unfortunately, there is no one else here listening, and I need to pee. And you,” he points at his own body slumped in the sofa, “are being incredibly unhelpful”.
“Why don’t you fix it yourself, then?” she finally snarls back. It lacks venom, but it’s a start. “I’m not in the mood. It’s just Polyjuice. Go pee and leave me alone.”
“I can’t,” he says back vehemently.
“Certainly you can. Lift my skirt, plop on down to the ladies’s and let nature do the work.”
“I can’t… touch you there.”
“And I’m not letting you pee on me,” Granger-as-Draco snaps back.
Finally, some semblance of vitality from his favorite partner-in-crime-he’s-definitely-in-love-with.
“Fix us, and you won’t have to.”
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, I can’t , ok? I can’t.”
“You can’t what.”
“Use magic,” she finally lets out, head dropping down on the soft leather, wisps of blond hair draping themselves on the leather. Merlin, he is gorgeous . A true work of art. Why Granger doesn’t jump his bones every time she sees him, he’ll never understand. What he also doesn’t seem to understand is what she just said.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“ I’vegotthefluanditsaffectingmysource .” She gets it off her chest at a dizzying speed. The effort seems to cost her, and she closes her eyes against the assault of the— flu? — in her system.
“You’ve got what?”
“The flu.”
“The flu?” he repeats.
“This is going to be an extremely long conversation if you keep repeating everything I say.”
She’s got one of his long finger against his temple, one eye half open, watching him.
“You— you’ve got the flu… and can’t perform magic?”
“That’s what I said.”
“What’s the flu?”
“A Muggle illness.”
“You’re not a Muggle.”
“And yet, here I am.” she gestures to his noodle-like body laying on the leather sofa.
“You can’t fix it?”
“I’ve tried. It’s not— I don’t know, it’s not working. I think I just need to let it run through. Sleep it off, cough it out.”
Draco-as-Granger bristles. “Run through? No, no. No. I need to pee!”
Granger-as-Draco sighs the exasperated sigh of someone who simply cannot.
“For goodness’ sake, Draco. Just go pee! It’s not like it’s anything you haven’t seen before a thousand times on other women.”
“These women weren’t you,” he snaps back immediately, scowling. It takes him a hot second to realize what he’s said, and another few for Granger-as-Draco to connect the dots, except she’s already replying when it hits.
“Which should make it easi—ergh?” Granger-as-Draco pauses, choking on the last word. “What?”
Draco-as-Granger clears his throat. “Doesn’t matter. Forget it. I’ll just…” he looks around aimlessly, avoiding Granger-as-Draco’s eyes like the plague. “I’ll, um…”
“You— I— what?” Granger-as-Draco says, both eyes open now, staring at him in (tired) shock.
“Nothing. Just leave it, Granger. I’ll go… meditate or something. It can’t possibly be that much longer until the potion wears off,” he mutters, looking down at the floor.
“What do you mean, these women weren’t me?” she asks calmly now, looking up at him.
Draco finds it weird, having a discussion with himself. Talking to Granger-as-Draco, discussing— feelings? It’s not quite how he envisioned pouring his heart out. He shakes his head once, clearing his head. Well, fuck. At least, Granger’s magic-less and can’t curse him for being an idiot.
“I mean exactly that.”
“What does that mean?”
“Granger, if you have to ask, I’m sorry to say that the title of Brightest Witch of Our Age is wasted on you.”
“You’re evading the question, Malfoy.”
Draco-as-Granger’s sigh is soul-tearing.
“I mean, Granger, that I don’t want the first time that I touch you there to be related to nature’s call in any capacity, while you aren’t even there .”
“That’s—” she starts, but Draco-as-Granger cuts her off, on a roll now. “I mean , you daft, daft woman, that I have been trying to ask you out for months—months!—I have dropped many hints and suggested many outings, but you— you— it’s infuriating,” he barks, pacing in front of his own body back and forth, “how blind you are to anything that isn’t Crookshanks, books, or your general love for sticking to rules.”
Granger-as-Draco stares at him with an open-mouth. The fish-out-of-water look doesn’t suit his facial features. Draco, on the other hand, is breathing hard. There are—emotions. Lots of them. Feelings galore on the tip of his tongue, aching to pour out of his (her) mouth. He wants to touch her. Wishes he could say he wants to hug her, or kiss her. But right now, he wants to strangle the life out of this infuriating woman wearing his body.
« You fancy me? » she finally croaks out, eyebrows drawn together. Draco-as-Granger sputters.
« Do I—? Isn’t that what I just said? »
Draco-as-Granger chances a look at the window. Defenestration looks mighty appealing from here. This is not the soulful declaration he’d planned. This is… awful.
« I don’t know, I’m sorry—sorry, it’s just, you’re— well, you. »
"I don’t know what this means, Granger.”
“You’ve never cared ,” she says, and Draco can feel his mouth drop open. He is— flummoxed. Floored. In an alternate universe.
“Granger, in what world have I ever not—” he catches himself. Takes a deep breath. Tries again. “Have you noticed I am working for the Ministry? Me. Putting my life on the line. Everyday. Do you… think I need this job?”
Draco Malfoy, poor . The thought is harrowing.
“I— maybe? I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“Granger. I do not know how to make it any clearer. This ,” he slowly waves to the space between their bodies, “is the only reason I show up at work. You.”
“Me?” she squeaks, and really, Draco expected better. Less disbelieving one-word-sentences, more kissing, perhaps?
“You.”
They don’t say anything else for a while. Draco waits on Granger to catch up, and Granger looks… confused. Her face (his face) is going through… a lot. Draco doesn’t have anything better to do right now (well, there is the pesky little issue of the loo, which is making itself known as a more and more present issue, but Draco is a man, and cannot focus on too many things at once), except trying to make sense of the plethora of expressions rushing through Granger-as-Draco’s face one after another. The silence lasts… longer than he would have liked.
Wand to the throat, he would confess that the current situation is not what he had hoped for.
He would have liked for Granger to immediately profess her undying love for him and snog the life out of him, but even he will admit the circumstances are not ideal. Kissing Granger as himself isn’t really the romantic notion he’d daydreamed. Having to step up on her tippy toes to reach his own mouth would be… a scarring experience, no doubt.
This is a mess. Where are Time-Turners when you need them?
Finally, Granger-as-Draco seems to pick up her jaw off the floor and gather her senses.
“You fancy me”, she states matter-of-factly, face blank, eyebrows furrowed.
“I would quip back, but I fear another misunderstanding. Yes, I do fancy you.”
Granger-as-Draco shakes her (his) head, looking down at the floor.
“But you constantly tell me how much I irritate you.”
“The two are not mutually exclusive. You are a thorn in my side, yes. You are infuriating, yes. You are constantly putting yourself in dangerous situations and had I not… been volunteered by Theo to be your partner, you would most likely be dead.” Granger-as-Draco scoffs, offended, but Draco ignores her. Raises his finger. Merlin, what a swot he must look like. Enthralled by his own impassioned speech, he doesn’t see his finger elongating, or his voice taking on a deeper timbre “But. You’ve also been a breath of fresh air. You don’t care that I am rich, or handsome, or pureblooded—” (he ignores her snort) “—you don’t care about rules of etiquette. You made me discover lasagna. Just five days ago you made me pet a dog, and that was paradigm-shifting. You’ve introduced me to so many things over the past two years, often by force, but I… I can’t regret any of it. I feel good when I’m with you. Happy. That’s not something I take for granted. I… like you. A lot. And I really don’t want the first time I see you to be as I—” he grimaces, imitates wiping, cringes some more. Goes silent. Waits. Hopes to be shot dead by a curse. Trampled by a centaur. Anything to stop this. His mother would die of shame. Her only son, an idiot.
Granger-as-Draco points at him.
“You’re back to being you.”
Draco looks down to see that he is, in fact, back to being him. Looks at Granger, who also still very much looks like him.
Thrilling, that all Granger has gathered from his declaration of love is that the Polyjuice is gone.
“This is not the way I saw this happening in my head,” he says.
“Listen, Malfoy, this is surprising. For me, that is. I don’t think you realize how strong your poker face is. I had no idea. You were always sputtering profanities and complaining about everything I made you do. I know we’ve made… progress, and I know that you’ve come to like me as a person. But I…”
“—You’re in love with Ron.”
“What? No .”
“But you don’t see me like this,” Draco finishes for her once more.
“For Merlin’s sake, shut up for a minute and let me speak,” she says, and winces at the sounds of her (his) own voice, clearly still bothered by her flu, whatever that is. “I thought you were a git. I introduced you to all these Muggle things because I was hoping to open your eyes, make you realize that this world has more to offer than fancy balls, expensive shoes, bespoke suits and kicking house-elves. You’ve been sheltered your entire life, taught to believe in the most dreadful things. I guess I wanted to see if you could be persuaded that some things are good, even if they’re Muggle, or… normal.”
“But…?”
“There is no but. I’ve obviously over-performed my duties if you’ve managed to fancy a Muggleb—”
Draco shuts his eyes. Winces.
“—Don’t say that. I— just. Don’t say it. Please.”
Granger levels him with a look.
“Muggleborn isn’t a cursed word, Malfoy. It’s what I am. It’s fearing the word that gives it power. Anyway. I’m—flattered. I am.” Draco cringes. Flattered . She is flattered. She is going to let him down slowly. He is going to drink himself into oblivion. Die of a broken heart. Ask Theo to Avada him. This is the worst day of his life. “…and I would like to consider you.”
His world stops turning.
“Consider me?”
“ Date you, Malfoy. I would like to go on a date with you.”
“You want to… date me.” He tests the word in his mouth. It sounds foul. Not at all what he wants to do with her.
“Isn’t that what Purebloods do? Get to know each other before they get married?”
Draco whips his head towards her.
“Married?” That sounds much better. Draco likes where this is going. And because Draco likes it so much, Granger stomps on it.
“Not ma— You’re twisting my words. Look, I’m not blind. There is potential,” she says, and Draco scoffs. Potential . “…but I haven’t had the pleasure of experiencing your wonderful company in a romantic setting, since you’ve been hell-bent on ensuring only the very worst of you be on display at any time. I would like for you to remedy this. In a few days. When I am healed . From the flu. That is slowly destroying my brain.”
“Is this… is this good?” he asks finally, eyebrows creasing. “I don’t think that this is going well.”
“You get one date, Malfoy,” Granger-as-Draco says. “Make it count. Now off you go. Answer nature’s call, think about ways you can dazzle me, and let me suffer in peace.”
Draco doesn’t quite know how he feels about all of this. But he does need to pee, so he nods. Like an idiot. He makes to leave, then thinks better of it, and wandlessly summons a potion from the one of his office drawers, which levitates towards Granger.
“I know you can’t mix Polyjuice with other potions, but take this when you’re back to being you. For your headache.”
“Thank you,” she says. Looks at her hands, still obnoxiously large and pale and aristocratically manicured.
“How long do you think, until I’m back to being me?”
“Who knows. This was a strong brew.” Draco makes for the door, opens it. Back facing her, his head twists around to look at her. “Maybe you can use your time alone to find out what I bring to the table?” he suggests casually, leaving before she can utter a reply.
It’s a good day in Hell when Draco Malfoy can leave Hermione Granger gobsmacked.