Switcheroo

Which Witch Switched

When Harry rolled over in bed that morning, he screwed up his eyes against the light and wondered why an odd, sick feeling had settled in his stomach. The hangings were yanked back with a rattle against the poles, and Ron's grinning face peered at him through the gap.

"Come on, Harry," he said cheerfully, throwing a pillow full into Harry's face. "Get up. First Quidditch match of the season today."

Harry rolled over and pulled the pillow over his head. That was the reason he felt so awful.

It didn't stop before breakfast. He made his way down to the Great Hall, Ron at his side chatting excitedly about strategies, and 'I really have got the Wronski Feint down now, Harry', and slid in beside Hermione. The brown haired girl looked up from her copy of 'Hogwarts, a History', propped open against a jar of marmalade, and obligingly shuffled closer to Ginny, to make room for Harry.

"Good luck, Harry," Hermione said warmly, pouring milk over her porridge. "It's a lovely day for the match."

Harry felt his stomach turn over rather drastically, and nodded silently, looking around the Hall. The other students were all talking happily to one another, eating breakfast and probably discussing the forthcoming match. As his eyes ran over the Ravenclaw table, Cho Chang looked up from her cereal and their eyes met briefly. She smiled briefly, mouthed 'good luck', and then turned back to her friends.

Harry's gaze fell on the Slytherin table; the entirety of which was a seething mass of green. Pansy Parkinson, with a green Slytherin scarf knotted around her neck tidily was in deep discourse with a dark haired, sly looking boy. As Harry watched absently, she looked up and at him, with deep dislike. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth pressed into a thin line. She said something to the boy she'd been chatting to, and both of them glanced at him quickly, then fell to serious talk once more; their eyes flicking occasionally back over to him.

Unsettled, Harry sat back in his seat, and began spreading a piece of toast with jam for want of anything else to do.

"Oh, it would be Slytherin," Ron moaned, gesturing wildly with his sticky knife at the Slytherin table. "First match of the season. They're going to try and knock me off my broom again." He scowled darkly across at Adrian Pucey, the big, broad Quidditch captain.

"Don't be silly," Hermione said mildly, taking his knife out of his hand before he stabbed her in the eye with it, and laying it tidily at the side of his plate. "It's Professor Flitwick refereeing, Ron. He won't stand for the Slytherins messing about."

Ron nodded resignedly. "Doesn't stop Malfoy trying any funny business, though," he said dejectedly. "He's bound to try and put me off."

"Where is he, anyway?" Harry asked who hadn't seen the smug blond boy at the breakfast table, anywhere near his usual gang of cronies.

Ron's face brightened. "Perhaps he's in the Hospital Wing," he suggested, happier. "Perhaps he's got himself slapped one too many times, or he's fallen off that broom of his and Slytherin will forfeit the match."

At that moment, the blond swaggered into the Great Hall, accompanied by Crabbe and Goyle, and even from across the room Harry could hear his loud demands for coffee, as he sat down beside the dark haired boy and Pansy.

"Worse luck," Ron said feelingly, knocking back a mouthful of pumpkin juice.

"You're not eating, Harry." Hermione nudged him gently in the side with her elbow. "You need to eat up; you can't play Quidditch on an empty stomach."

"All right, Mum," Ron put in witheringly, springing to his friend's defence. "Harry's all right, aren't you, mate?" He looked over at him.

"I feel a bit sick," Harry admitted, laying down his knife beside his untouched toast. "I don't think I can eat anything, Hermione."

"Nonsense," she said calmly, dipping her spoon into her own bowl of porridge. "Just forget the match. Ginny's playing, and you don't see her not eating breakfast, do you? Don't worry, Harry. You always win against Slytherin, anyway."

Ginny Weasley grinned at him companionably from the other side of Hermione.

"We'll smash them," she said complacently. "I'd like to shove the Snitch up Malfoy's nose." She rubbed her hands together with a bloodthirsty smack. "I'll settle for beating him, and making the first match of the season his last. Scummy little prat. Did you hear what he said to Padma Patil?"

Harry, still dazed by a Ginny Weasley who took her duties as a Chaser very, very seriously, shook his head. Hermione glanced at Ginny and sighed.

"We all know Draco Malfoy is a little brat," she observed dryly, as the boy's court clustered around his end of the Slytherin table. "You'll simply have to prove you're the better sportsman, Harry. And that's all. Now eat your breakfast."

Harry buttoned his Quidditch robes with fingers that fumbled on the fastenings. He stopped, looking around the locker-room at his teammates. Ron was shrugging the scarlet robes on over his jersey, Ginny and Katie Bell sat next to one another tightening leg guards and talking in low, urgent voices. The two third years, both of which were Beaters, had stoically blank expressions, but Harry could see the faint note of panic and excitement as cautiously, they tested the weights of their clubs. The last Chaser, Juliet Landy was a small Second Year. She looked tiny now to Harry, against the heft and muscle of the Slytherin team.

"Right, team," he said awkwardly, and wished he'd remembered better exactly how Wood used to begin these talks. It had been a long time since he'd played Quidditch under the burly Seventh Year.

He looked around for inspiration, and could only see their faces. The new ones; expectant, upturned towards him as if he was supposed to give them some sage advice, and the familiar, Ginny and Ron with grins at him being 'Captain', and Katie with a warm smile. He wondered absently why she hadn't been given the position. After all, she was a Seventh Year.

"Let's go out and... Try and win," he completed his sentence, and rather wished he hadn't. There was a knock at the door by Madam Hooch.

"Teams up," she reminded them, and the Gryffindor team surged out of the locker-room, the third years talking quietly, Juliet asking questions of Katie. Harry fell into step with Ron and Ginny.

"Don't worry," Ginny coaxed, patting his arm rather shyly, her hand heavy in the brown leather guard. "You'll be fine. I've got to run ahead - Juliet's first match, remember? I've got to make sure she's all right." She exchanged a look with Ron that Harry guessed was something very Weasley in communication, letting Ron know that he had to continue what she'd begun. She hurried off ahead, her gingery plait flying out behind her with her robes as she caught up to Katie and Juliet.

"She's right, you know." Ron's remark was deceptively off-hand. "You will." He looked askance at Harry, a sort of summing up glance that only a friend could make. "You're the best player we've had, since Charlie. Everyone knows that."

Harry nodded. "I know," he said uncomfortably. "Everyone says things like that. But what if I get it wrong?" He looked at Ron rather desperately, wishing the other boy understood. He could see Ron didn't, however much he battled to. "I keep getting made things, and although Quidditch isn't everything, it's still something. Katie could have been Captain. You could've been Captain." Ron flushed, and began to say something, and Harry shook his head firmly.

"You could. But it's me. Me again." He was quiet once again; how could he explain the expectation? That 'famous Harry Potter' would win again? That he was something special, and could make things different?

Ron seemed to make up his mind about something, and clapped him on the arm. "Mate," he said solemnly, "Whatever it is that's made you so uptight, I suggest you get over it now, because we're about two minutes away from mount-up."

Harry nodded, and tried to force a smile back. "Yeah," he agreed. "I should. C'mon, let's get ready to play."

The stands were packed with students. Bright, cold blue sky overhead meant visibility was perfect; the crisp chill of autumn was without the complications of snow, or heavy rain, which Harry was thankful for. He looked around the stadium. The Slytherin section sat solidly, shoulder to shoulder, in green. Professor Snape sat, his face composed and impassive in the front row, in his normal black robes with a highly noticeable green and silver scarf tossed around his neck. Harry shivered.

The other House sections had filled out too. Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbottom and Hermione were sat together in the Gryffindor stand. Even in the Ravenclaw section, Harry could see faint snatches of red, and he could make out Cho Chang, sitting giggling with her friends, in the centre of the seats.

As they walked out onto the pitch, Harry could see the Slytherin team coming towards him. Adrian Pucey, the heavy-set Quidditch Captain bore down on him, his pasty face grim and set. Behind him, Harry could see Draco Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. The blond's face was paler than usual, but when he caught Harry looking, he smirked, and said something to the other two boys. They laughed raucously, giving Harry nasty smiles.

Madam Hooch walked briskly onto the pitch, her black robes billowing with her strides. She looked at each of them, measuring them up, and then glanced over to Professor Flitwick, who stood to one side, his broom ready.

"Captains, shake hands," she said flatly, and Adrian Pucey barged his way forwards from the ranks of his team, to stand to the left of Madam Hooch. Harry stepped forward to stand on the other side. He held out his hand calmly. Adrian's grip was uncomfortably tight and strong.

"Right, teams mount up," Madam Hooch said with a blow of her whistle. The game had begun.

Harry hovered over the game, watching the action. Ginny raced the Slytherin Chaser down the pitch, streaking towards the goal, and 'Goal!' He could hear the roar from the Gryffindor stands, and see the glint of red and gold Gryffindor scarves being waved in the air. Ginny shot past him, glancing his way and grinning, before her concentration settled back on the game.

They were having a hard time of it. Seamus Finnagan was announcing, his voice magically amplified from the stands to be heard by everyone. Harry could hear him clearly, in the stillness of the day.

"And that's another goal to Slytherin, bad luck Gryffindor Keeper, Ron Weasley." Harry could almost see Seamus' cheerful face scrunched up in sympathy for Ron. He could see Ron doing a frustrated lap of his goals, as Juliet Landy tore off with the Quaffle, passing it back and forth to Katie as they raced up the other end of the pitch.

"Goal! And Slytherin are in the lead, a hundred and ten points to thirty." Seamus sounded positively dejected at the news, but unable to say anything worse, as Harry knew from experience Professor McGonagall would be hovering at his shoulder. Since the days of Lee Jordan, Professor McGonagall was a great deal warier about what she let the students say during matches.

In fact, Harry was starting to worry about the outcome. The Gryffindor team worked well together, the Chasers predicted one another's movements efficiently. Ron was doing his best to guard the goals, and the Beaters were everywhere at once, hitting the Bludgers valiantly at whichever Slytherin was clutching the Quaffle. Whatever they did though did not make up for the sheer strength of the Slytherin team. Crabbe and Goyle's power behind their bats outstripped the Gryffindors. Juliet and Ginny were light and speedy, but they couldn't barrel their way through the way Graham Pritchard and Theodore Nott could. The Slytherins were pulling every dirty trick out of the bag they could, and Harry was hardly surprised when an odiously familiar sound began again.

'Weasley is our King, Weasley is our King, he always lets the Quaffle in, Weasley is our King.'

Oh no. Not again. Harry could see Ron stop on his broom, as Graham Pritchard bore down on him with all the grim determination of scoring one more goal. Harry swept across the pitch to see where Ginny, Katie and Juliet were, but the three girls were down at the other end, racing back on their brooms and narrowly missing the Bludgers that Crabbe and Goyle were batting right at them.

Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of a flash of gold out of the corner of his eye. The Snitch! The first sighting of it all game. He could see Malfoy sitting up sharply on his broom, and Harry surged forward, his Firebolt diving forward in pursuit of the evasive golden ball.

He could hear Seamus Finnagan yelling, 'And the Snitch has been spotted!' as a roar in his ears as he turned his broom upwards to shoot into the blue after the whizzing gold blur ahead. Malfoy pursued from the opposite direction. He was so near that Harry could see his face set into a tight mask, his lips pressed so thinly together that they looked bloodless. Harry's knuckles had gone white with the grip on his broom. He could feel the wood solidly under his palms as real as the wind rushing past his face.

He drew up sharply, using the precious extra minutes bought by superior broom-speed to scan the skies for the Snitch. Had it gone, again? His heart sank, and then - There it was. Darting upwards. He urged his broom on, seeing Malfoy shoot out from his own hover, and they were inches away... Harry stretched out a hand, trying to shift his balance on the broom; he could see Malfoy's own gloved hand reaching as determinedly as he. They were inches away, millimetres, his fingers were just about to brush it as tantalisingly the ball hung in mid-air, seemingly still as its wings fluttered and whirred.

"It's mine," Malfoy shouted, reaching forward. Harry's hand closed around his half just as Malfoy gripped his. Harry could feel the cold, grooved metal of the ball against his palm, could feel the trapped wings beat against his enclosing fingers and then - Wham!

With a sickening 'thump', the Bludger smashed into them, knocking both boys from their brooms and they were falling, falling, both still clutching the Snitch between them possessively. The ground rose up to meet them; Harry could hear the frightened shouts of people running onto the pitch, and then he fell, hard against the grass of the pitch, his back slamming into it painfully. A moment later, Malfoy had fallen, sprawled across him with a heavy weight, so flush to him had he been that they were pressed hip to hip, chest to chest, face to face, and Malfoy's face came so close to his own that their noses crashed together, and their mouths touched.

Then Malfoy's weight was off him, and Harry could breathe. He sighed, and closed his eyes, surrendering to the pain threatening to overwhelm him and fell into blackness.

He could smell the disinfectant, starched smell of the Hospital Wing before he opened his eyes. It was a smell of clean sheets that were scratchy with stiffness, of beeswax from the highly polished bedside tables and the faint smell of burnt gas from the lamps that served as night-lights in the Hospital Wing. Harry knew the smell mixture intimately; it was labelled as 'injured' in his memory, and as he breathed in the concoction of scents that was uniquely this place, he knew where he was.

He blinked, wincing in the bright sunlight flooding the room from the large windows and shook his head to clear it of the muzziness of passing out. He could make out a figure at the bottom of his bed, and screwed up his eyes to see better.

"Welcome back," said a somewhat familiar voice. Harry frowned, unable to quite realise what he was hearing. Surely... Surely not? He looked more closely. The speaker was... him. Him, Harry Potter. He could see the same thick black hair he brushed every morning with varying degrees of success in making it lie flat. The smudge of dried jam at the corner of his mouth from the little breakfast he'd actually eaten. His scar. His own green eyes watching him intently from behind his own glasses, the ones Dudley had sat on and bent out of shape. The ones Hermione had repaired a dozen times.

"What's going on?" he managed to choke out, still staring at the boy who was him. "Who are you? Why do you look like...me?" The mirror image smiled with a smirk totally unfamiliar on his face, and drawled in Harry's own voice with a laziness of tone that was nothing like him,

"It's me. Draco Malfoy."

Harry blinked. "What?" He looked again, and everything was there still. It wasn't a bizarre dream, he thought wildly. Perhaps it was a side effect of being knocked out one too many times, any minute now, Hermione and Ron would be standing next to him and he would be -

He couldn't tear his eyes away from his own face, and watched it slide into grim lines.

"I want to know," he heard himself say, "How you've done this."

"What?" Harry said it again, more desperately this time. How was this even possible? What had Malfoy done to mirror him so completely? He slid down from the bed quickly, stepping closer to this other-him.

"Malfoy, what sort of prank are you pulling? Is this Polyjuice Potion? Why do you want to go around looking like me for?" Harry suddenly felt a flash of fear. "What are you trying to do to Gryffindor?" he demanded, accusatorily. "You can't get in, you don't know the password."

"Why would I want to go around looking like you?" Malfoy sneered back in a tone Harry had never used. "If you've not done this, I don't understand-" He broke off, and seemed to be thinking.

"You'd better reverse it," Harry advised, folding his arms. "I can't have two mes running around Hogwarts." He watched his own face change, and then Malfoy smiled dryly.

"Obviously you haven't worked it out yet," he drawled. "Mind you, I've been awake longer. There aren't any 'two yous'. You're me."

Harry frowned again and then the door to the hospital wing opened. Both boys turned to face the entrance.

"Harry!" Hermione sounded almost tearful as she and Ron managed to get past Madam Pomfrey's gimlet eye, and hurried into the ward. At the same time as they were let in, Pansy Parkinson and the dark haired boy strode in hurriedly, still wrapped in their green scarves.

As Harry smiled warmly at his friends to re-assure them he was all right, Hermione and Ron walked past him without a glance - to Malfoy.

"Are you all right?" he could hear Hermione ask as she hugged Malfoy fiercely. Harry saw a disgusted expression appear on his own features over Hermione's shoulder, and Malfoy wriggled gingerly in Hermione's embrace.

Before he could protest - hang on, Hermione, that's not me. I'm me! - The two Slytherins were in front of him, blocking his view of Hermione, Ron and 'Harry'.

"Are you all right?" Pansy Parkinson asked him, looking at him closely. "Oh, Draco! Potter fell on you; we were so worried." She gave 'Harry' a scathing look.

Madam Pomfrey bustled in before Harry was forced to answer, dazed as he was. She was as starched and proper as ever, her lips pressed together tightly.

"If you'd release Mr Potter and Mr Malfoy, please," she said curtly, and her wand was out as soon as Hermione, Pansy, Ron and the dark haired boy whose name Harry didn't know stepped dutifully away from the two boys. There was simply no such thing as arguing with Madam Pomfrey. She didn't like it, or accept it.

Busily, Madam Pomfrey made a short gesture with her wand. A golden ribbon wove out of the end of it, circling Malfoy-as-Harry, and a moment later, she did the same again, a silver ribbon curling around Harry. The ribbons shot back to her, and she seemed to read them, nodding her head brightly as they waited in silence.

"Mr Potter received a nasty crack on the head," she informed them, "So I shall be keeping him overnight for observation. There doesn't seem to be anything the matter," her tone was ominous, the 'yet' was implicit, "But Mr Malfoy, you may go. You have no further adverse effects. Miss Parkinson, Mr Zabini, I trust you can escort Mr Malfoy back to his common-room?"

Pansy Parkinson nodded her head, a tight little movement of acquiescence. The dark haired boy gave a vague gesture that looked like assent.

"Very good," Madam Pomfrey agreed. She looked at Harry. "If you'll go on, Mr Malfoy." She turned to look at Malfoy-as-Harry closer, tilting his head to one side to examine the size of his pupils. Harry was effectively dismissed.

"B... but-" Harry stammered, and then two hands were slipped into his and tugged, firmly.

"We'll look after him," Pansy said firmly, and pinched the web of skin between finger and thumb. Harry gave a strangled yelp, and when Madam Pomfrey turned around, inquiringly, Harry followed docilely as he was led.

Outside in the corridor, Pansy stopped him.

"Draco, what did that woman do to you?" she sighed, facing Harry and frowning her anxiety. Harry swallowed.

"Um... what do you mean?" he asked awkwardly. Pansy reached out, and with her fingers, smoothed the collar of his Quidditch shirt, picked off a bit of dried mud from his jersey with a disgusted look and a dainty flick of her fingertips, and straightened the shoulder seams of his robes so that they lay tidily along the line of his shoulders.

"You were a mess," the Zabini boy put in, helpfully. "You haven't looked a mess since you fell off your broom in second year, or that time you bounc-"

"Blaise, I really don't think Draco needs to discuss that now," Pansy hastily put in. Harry's lips twitched involuntarily. A glorious visual of Draco, the amazing bouncing ferret had slid into his mind.

"He's right, though," Pansy added thoughtfully. "You never look untidy. You must have been hurt really badly. Honestly, that Pomfrey woman! Hasn't a clue what she's on about. Mother always said-"

"Oh, do shut up about your mother," Blaise muttered under his breath, so that only Harry would catch it. "She has a view on everything. 'A lady always'," he mimicked, in an undertone that was cleverly close to Pansy's own.

"A lady always knows never to take chances, particularly with health," Pansy sniffed, apparently blithely unaware of Blaise's mockery, until her hand flashed out, and she hit him, hard in the shoulder.

"Ouch," Blaise nursed his arm injuredly, glaring at Pansy. Pansy smiled serenely.

"Let's get Draco back to the common-room, before the Gryffindors decide to get annoyed that Draco got knocked off his broom by Potter's clumsiness." She slipped an arm around Harry's shoulders with more forcefulness than gentleness, and they began walking, Blaise's arm around his waist. When the hand settled on his arse, Harry looked at Pansy, eyes wide, but she was totally unaware. Suspiciously, Harry glanced at Blaise. The dark-haired boy's face was perfectly composed, and innocent.

No one seemed to have realised he was Harry Potter, not Draco Malfoy. He couldn't seem to find the words to tell them, to stop both Parkinson and Zabini and say, 'here, look, I'm not Malfoy, I'm Harry Potter and we appear to have somehow switched bodies'. Perhaps it was the fear of being resoundly laughed at, and their refusal to believe him. More than likely, though, was the fact that although Harry was very definitely apprehensive about walking into Slytherin, he was more than a little curious.

And after all - Draco Malfoy had been left alone with a Hermione and Ron who thought that Malfoy was Harry.