Almost Perfect

Almost Perfect

The potion surges through Ginny's body like burning poison. Her stomach churns, and she clutches at a bedpost to prevent herself from sinking to her knees from the power of the sudden nausea. The heat is a fraction distant from being unbearable, flowing within her like acid. She retches and leans a little more heavily on the cool wood beneath her hand, beginning to wonder whether she has correctly measured the ingredients. As her breath begins to catch and lock within her throat, Ginny feels her skin seem to shimmer and slacken, a slipping, melting sensation that causes her heart to pound a little faster and harder from the combination of fear and anticipation.

Dropping her hazy gaze to the hand on the bedpost, Ginny gasps out loud, eyes widening as they witness the slow transformation of her own body. Bitten, too-short fingernails lengthen and become more square, rounded fingers become pale and thin. The faint freckles on the back of her hand shimmer and then vanish, the newly untarnished skin stretching tightly over the unfamiliar wrist and disappearing beneath the cuff of her robes.

The queasiness fades and Ginny soon finds that she can stand without the aid of the bedpost. Raising one trembling hand to her face she discovers that the features are no longer her own, the rough scrape of fresh stubble beneath her fingers a new and strangely exciting feeling. A smile tickles her lips as she reaches down to retrieve a discarded glass beaker from the floor at her feet. She regards the dregs of Polyjuice potion within for a calculating moment before turning to deposit the container in the wastepaper basket beside her bed, concealing its presence with a carefully arranged wad of papers. The evidence thus disposed of, she walks to the mirror that hangs beside the door of her dormitory and forgets to breathe for a moment as she looks at her reflection.

It's not her face at all, and the fact still manages to surprise her despite the hours of preparation that have resulted in the new combination of features. Amazed, she finds herself caught in the cool gaze of large grey eyes, noticing for the first time the length of the blond lashes that rise and fall with every blink. The fine bone structure and narrow nose fascinate her and she reaches up to brush their reflection with an interested finger, letting it drift downwards to trace the line of perfectly shaped lips before forcing her arm back to her side.

Ginny attempts a smile, and it becomes a smirk on this new face. Amused, she speaks, the 'hello' shaping itself into a cold drawl as it crosses her lips. The result encourages her and the next attempt is more challenging. 'My name is Draco Malfoy, and I am an intolerable prat,' she states and the effect is so convincing that she can't help but drift into a few stray giggles, the good humour looking strangely out of place on the countenance before her.

As she moves to grasp the spare robes she had so carefully transfigured into those of the Slytherin house, Ginny pauses a moment to pray that she hasn't grossly misinterpreted the situation. She is working solely from her own, untested observations, and the thought that she might be wrong squirms tightly in her chest before being wilfully pushed aside in favour of the complexities of removing her too-small clothing with fingers larger than she is used to.

It is only when she has stripped down to her underwear that Ginny realises the full implications of becoming Draco Malfoy. She had not thought of the transformation as anything more than a means to an end, one tremendous step in the claiming of Harry Potter for a few brief moments. Now, however, she is faced with the reality of the situation, smiling slightly as she contemplates the ridiculousness of her own lace bra stretched across an undeniably masculine chest. Reaching behind to unfasten it, she finds her fingers unwilling to complete the task in the usual subconscious manner, and is forced to struggle with the clasp for several seconds before achieving success.

A little daunted, she casts the offending item to one side, catching sight of her new form in the mirror as she does so. Frowning, she takes a step forward, raising a hand to brush back long hair that's no longer there. Ginny stares. This is the first time she's ever seen a male body in such an undressed state, unless she counts her brothers, but that's something else entirely. She never feels like this when Ron struts around The Burrow showing off muscles that exist only in his mind. Then again, this feeling is different even to the pleasant heat that accompanies a sly glance at Harry's crotch or the unexpected sight of him bending to pick up a dropped quill. She assumes it has something to do with the new parts that are currently stretching her underpants into a previously unknown shape.

Tentatively, Ginny raises a hand to touch the flat chest, unable to remember the last time her own body had felt so hard and solid beneath her touch and fascinated by the contrast between smooth, warm skin and the punctuation of sparse blonde hairs. Her eyes never move from her reflection as she brushes curious fingers across one nipple, blinking in surprise at the strange combination of known and not-known. Malfoy's face blinks back at her, looking unusually ruffled and confused. Ginny wonders whether he looks like this when he's alone and thinking of Harry and feels a pang of jealousy at the thought. And she knows it's not just about Harry, because if she's completely honest with herself, she likes looking at Malfoy's body and feeling his skin beneath her fingers.

Her eyes follow the narrow trail of hair that bisects the mirror stomach, chasing it downward to the dark band of her normally-unremarkable underpants, her gaze falling lower still for a brief, thrilling second before being torn away again, a hot blush colouring the cheeks of the face before her. She has to laugh then, because there's something completely ridiculous in the sight of Malfoy blushing, not to mention in her feeling embarrassed when there's no one there to see. It feels like he's looking at her, though, mirroring her actions and encouraging her to move her hand lower so that it lingers on her waistband.

Darting a quick glance towards the locked door of the dormitory, Ginny wonders whether it would be wrong to undress completely. She tells herself that the underpants might seem suspicious should Harry somehow catch sight of them and that a creep like Malfoy doesn't deserve to have his modesty left intact. The contents of said clothing seem to agree with her reasoning, making their own attempt to divest themselves of the fabric in a rather demanding manner. Swallowing, she closes her eyes and pulls the material out and downwards, her breath catching in her throat as her wrist drifts, momentarily, against unfamiliar flesh.

Opening her eyes, Ginny feels almost as though she is re-experiencing the Polyjuice side effects. Her thoughts seem to disconnect and the only place she can look is there. And after staring for what seems like minutes, it's only natural that her fingers begin to twitch. She decides that it wouldn't be so very wrong to just touch it for a moment. Later she'll be able to class it a scientific experiment, but for the moment, all that's in her mind is the urge to discover what it is the boys are so damn proud of.

She hadn't meant to do it, but the initial touch had been seductive and suddenly it's not so much about her fingers experiencing the smoothhardfrantic heat as it is about sliding and holding and trying to make the sensations continue. Ginny isn't a stranger to nights spent trying to keep the bed covers still and hoping that she's right in assuming the other girls are asleep, but this feeling is different. More urgent and less indulgent and she's not sure whether it's because she's not one of the girls any more or because Malfoy looks alarmingly good when his lids sag with pleasure and his lips part to allow the passage of thickening breaths.

(Of course, if Ginny was in the mood for confessions, she might admit that Malfoy always looks good: that it is his personality that made her cringe. And if she wanted to analyse things a little further, perhaps she would go so far as to say that there is something almost appealing about that sort of beastliness, albeit in a stereotypical kind of way. After all, Harry must see something in Malfoy. When Ginny catches sight of him in the Great Hall, there are times when she feels it herself, but she covers it with a shy glance towards Harry and a mental reminder that it's goodness and friendship and warmth that make her feel that way, not icy comments and arrogant good looks.)

Only it would seem that this new body isn't aware of such preferences, because Ginny has a good idea that this is what it feels like to be close to exploding and her eyes are glued to the horrible beauty of Malfoy's gaze. Perhaps it had been about experimenting at first, perhaps it had been a curiosity she couldn't avoid, but now it's all about him. Her rival, Harry's desire and the owner of the face in semi-regular dreams that left her confused and embarrassed and wary of sleep. Him. NotHarry.

The combination of sight and touch and one clumsy, inexperienced hand becomes too much, and Ginny sinks to the floor with weary limbs and a sickly-sticky hand. Her breathing slows, becomes more even, abandons its anxiety. She despises herself acutely, despite the heavy feeling of accomplishment that taints her remorse. Worse, she is aware that she has wasted too much of the limited time she possesses. And still she is reluctant to move her gaze from the mirrored sight of a sweat-damp and wearied Malfoy folded boneless on the dormitory floor.

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Ginny is amazed that Harry doesn't show more surprise on looking up from a book to notice Draco Malfoy standing in the doorway to his dormitory. For a moment, she wonders whether she has actually underestimated the situation, whether he and Malfoy have indeed gone beyond merely staring from a distance, their interest hidden beneath scowls and cold words. But then she remembers to look beyond the expressionless mouth and notices the way that Harry's eyes seem to be looking at her (Malfoy) as though he can't decide whether to laugh or to glare or to pinch his arm to make sure he hasn't fallen asleep.

'Hello, Harry,' she begins, then cringes when she realises that she's already messing things up. Harry blinks at the sound of his first name and begins to move as though to speak. Ginny rushes in quickly to diffuse her mistake, forcing herself to think carefully despite the fact that Harry's never looked at her quite like this before.

(And there are reasons for that, and she knows what they are, but Ginny would rather not think about such things right now, because what point is a masquerade if you can't let yourself pretend that what is fake is real?)

'Where's the weasel?' she asks, feeling a pang of disloyalty. Of course, she knows very well that Ron's in the hospital wing with a cold; she was the one who sent him there when his complaining became too much. Malfoy wouldn't know, though, and that's the thing that matters, at least in Harry's eyes.

'Hospital wing,' Harry confirms vaguely and then frowns. 'I thought you had gone home for Christmas.'

Ginny had expected such a comment, and thus has her story prepared. Over the last couple of weeks, she has even rehearsed her response, glad when the other girls went home to their families and left her alone in the dormitory at night because then she could practice expressions in the mirror without anyone asking her what was wrong. 'Father is having a dinner party,' she says. 'Apparently I would have been in the way.'

'Oh.' Harry's frown deepens and Ginny is reminded once again why she loves him the way she does. He looks so offended by such a minor affront to one who is supposed to be his enemy. It's no secret to Ginny that Harry wishes the world could be a much nicer place. One day, she hopes she'll be able to tell him that she thinks it becomes a thousand times nicer just whenever he's around.

Then again, there are a lot of things Ginny wants to say to Harry. When she was younger, she used to daydream about what their wedding would be like, her in extravagant white silk and lace, him the sort of dress robes she'd see in her mother's magazine. These days she knows that it's not the wedding that matters, but occasionally she'll still find herself doodling 'Ginny Potter' in the margins of her scrolls. She'd never tell Harry that, but she wishes she could find the words to tell him the way her heart speeds up whenever he's around.

'Why are you here?' Harry asks, and Ginny remembers that her time as Malfoy is limited.

'I wanted to see you.'

'Why?'

It's a good question. Ginny's not entirely sure herself what she wants of the encounter. For the moment she's happy just to have Harry looking at her like this, as though she's more than simply Ron's younger sister. In all the weeks of planning, she's never dared to let her thoughts wander any further than the possibility that Harry might just want to hold her if she's in someone else's skin.

She's never been good at words, so she decides to push them aside. Instead she moves to join Harry on his bed, smiling a little at the way his eyes widen so dramatically at the arrogance of the assumption. 'Do I have to have a reason?' she asks, taking his book and moving it to one side. It amazes her how much easier it is to do this when she's hiding behind someone else's face, almost as though she's most comfortable in any body but her own.

Harry looks as though he wants to tell her (Malfoy) to go away but he makes no attempt to send her from the room. His eyes are bright in the light from the nearby window and from this distance Ginny can see that his lashes are thicker than her own. His skin doesn't have the fragile delicacy of Malfoy's, but she finds it fascinating all the same: the few faint freckles on the bridge of his nose and the dim shadow of teenage beard that has only recently become this noticeable.

'What do you want from me?' Harry asks, and she can tell that she's already disposing of any opposition he might initially have attempted to show. He blinks and looks disconcerted, as though still not completely sure that this is more than a perplexing dream.

'You,' Ginny replies and feels like she's living a cliche, long afternoons spent pouring over cheap and battered romance novels having provided the perfect script.

Pink rises in Harry's cheeks and Ginny's certainly never seen him looking like this before, like he's about to break in two from the sheer exhilaration of the moment. Her insides scream at the thought that it might be her (Malfoy) that causes his breathing to speed up a little at the mere utterance of such an obvious line. She waits for the certain declaration of love, the strong arms around her shoulders and the brush of soft lips against her cheek.

Instead, Harry's jaw tenses and his lips tighten. Ginny leans in, moving closer to his warmth. Harry shoves her, hard, pushing her backwards so that her head connects with the springy softness of his mattress. Her mouth jars open with the contact. She blinks, shivers, feels a shift in the room. Propping herself up with her elbows, she doesn't recognise this Harry.

He glares down at her, fringe falling forward across the frames of his glasses. 'Do you find this amusing, Malfoy?' he snarls, teeth clenched. 'Did you think you'd pop back to Hogwarts for a little fun before Christmas?'

Ginny's eyes widen. 'No! That's not it,' she protests, but Harry is unmoved.

'You never were a good liar.' Carefully, calmly, he removes his glasses, folding the arms inward and placing them on the small cupboard beside his bed. 'Go on, then,' he continues. 'If you want me so much... show me.'

Ginny hesitates. She's often imagined what her first kiss with Harry would be like, but she's never been the instigator in her dreams. Harry watches her, expression cold and distrustful. Slowly, she raises herself to his level, gaze unable to stray from his eyes. The hatred in his voice disturbs her and she does what she feels she can to remove it. Leaning in, she brushes her lips against his cheek and then kisses him.

For a moment, it is sweet, as beautiful as she had hoped it might be. Harry seems dazed by the thought that it is her (Malfoy) whose arms wrap tightly around his neck, one hand tangling in the hair at the back of his head. He mirrors the action, pulling her in closer still, and the sweetness fades and disappears. Suddenly it feels like Harry is trying to break her with his kiss. And Ginny feels like he might well succeed because the conflict between her Harry and this Harry is tearing at her mind and making her limbs feel heavy and useless.

He pushes her away and smirks cynically at her with heavy-lidded eyes. 'Who would have thought?' he drawls, and it's almost as though Malfoy's wearing Harry's skin, just as she is wearing his.

(And Ginny can't help but smile at that thought, because it sounds as though she's stepped into one of the horror stories her brothers would tell her late at night when she was younger, scaring her so terribly that she would lie awake for hours. It's amusing because it's Harry, not some monster, whose fingers calmly stroke a circling path on her neck, lips full and red beneath the intensity of his gaze.)

She can't help it. With his arms finally around her and his taste still on her lips it's as though she has no control over her speech. 'I love you,' she whispers, and closes her eyes at the unbelievable immensity of the moment.

Harry laughs.

'Do you?' The harshness of his voice sends slithers of ice through her blood, and Ginny has to look at Harry to confirm that it's really him. 'Funny. You've never shown it.'

'I thought I just did.'

A disconcerting smile twists the corner of his mouth as he replies. 'I guess it's a start.'

He kisses her again, harshly and possessively, his tongue not so much caressing her own as assaulting it and his hand gripping her neck so tightly that the skin beneath his fingertips begins to burn. For a moment, Ginny doesn't realise what he means, but then the firm heat of his erection presses painfully into her thigh and each syllable becomes almost agonisingly lucid within her mind.

Sometimes, at night, Ginny imagines what sex would be like between two boys. In her mind, the bodies have familiar faces. She has heard the whispers and even seen a crumpled picture that the girls were passing around one evening. At the time, she giggled along with the others and wondered what could possibly be so appealing about something that looks more painful than pleasant. Later, she wondered about Harry and Malfoy and whether they wanted to do those things with each other. The thought made her feel drunk and the depths of her stomach tingle. Sometimes, at night, she revisits those thoughts and images once the others are asleep and thinks that maybe, just maybe, she can understand the attraction, even if only from the viewpoint of an outsider.

Because Ginny is no innocent, despite what her brothers would like to believe. It's true she's dreamed of holding hands and romantic walks through autumn leaves, but she knows there's more to love than chaste kisses goodbye. When she imagined her first time, there were roses and candles. Harry's eyes were soft and his touch was gentle and when they made love it was beautiful and even the thought of it made her feel like crying. She had known that it would be perfect and that Harry wouldn't be able to stop telling her he loved her, while he stroked her hair and kissed her warmly on the lips. She had imagined love and romance and a feeling of completion, not these rough, desperate touches and the feeling of Harry's kisses tormenting her already-swollen lips. And she can't help but feel a little sad at the demise of her personal fairytale, and perhaps even allow the smallest thread of regret to enter the shadowy corners of her mind.

And when Harry pushes Ginny (Malfoy) face down onto his bed and pants 'I love you too' as he enters her, it hurts. It hurts like no pain Ginny's ever experienced, either in reality or imagination. She tells herself that the pain is okay because it's Harry and she'd never believed that she might ever come this close to him, but she still wants to shout for him to stop. Because this is not how it was supposed to be. This isn't the Harry she loves and she's not who he loves, as much as she tries to pretend that he can see through Malfoy's body to the Ginny underneath.

He marks her skin with his fingernails, rends thin, parallel lines across her back in slowly surfacing blood. He tangles a hand in the fine strands of her hair and pulls her head backwards, biting and claiming the delicate skin of her neck. She's horrified when her (Malfoy's) body becomes aroused and Harry laughs knowingly into her ear, slipping an arm beneath Ginny to aggressively grasp and slide. 'Slytherin slut,' he hisses and grinds her into the mattress so she can smell the dull scent of cotton and dust and stale perspiration as her beloved Harry Potter grunts and thrusts deeper into her.

When it's over, Ginny cries.

While Harry replaces his clothing, she clutches the bed covers in shaking hands and feels empty and used and irrevocably evil. When he bends to place a patronising kiss on her shoulder before patting her lightly on the back, she cringes from his touch. He laughs softly, and Ginny wonders why she's never noticed how cold his laughter is before today.

'Not so tough now, are you?' he observes, retrieving his glasses and setting them in place.

She shakes her head and begins to gather her own clothing, her stomach churning at the sight of the transfixed robes, torn and crumpled from Harry's impatience. She wonders whether he would always be that way, whether that's what love means to Harry, or whether it was the intimacy with his enemy that inspired such an emotionless display. Ginny decides that she doesn't care to find out. She's already learnt too many things that she wishes she could erase from her mind.

She wishes she were dreaming, that when she awoke she would experience the blissful relief that accompanies the worst nightmares. She wants to feel untainted, free of the nauseating guilt that twists her stomach. For a moment, Ginny feels as though she is about to vomit and she lifts a hand to press against her mouth. The sensation passes, but her gaze locks upon the freckles that are beginning to stain the once-flawless skin of Malfoy's hand and she realises that she should have left Harry minutes ago.

She dresses quickly, head bowed, then moves towards the door, her steps heavy and painful.

'You're leaving?'

Ginny nods, trying to conceal her face as much as possible with one raised hand.

'Don't.' The word becomes a plea. 'I meant it, you know. What I said. And...' He pauses. Ginny can hear him breathing. '...I've wanted this a while. It... it means a lot to me.'

She tries again to leave. The skin on her face is crawling and shifting and Ginny can see her robes pulling and twisting out of shape as the curves of her breasts reappear upon her chest.

'Damnit, Malfoy, you wanted it like that!' Harry shouts, as though he is finding it difficult to believe his own words. He closes the distance between them, grabbing her shoulders harshly and spinning her around. His features seem to fold in upon themselves as he recognises her through the remnants of Malfoy's face and Ginny can see the betrayal, fear and self-hatred glimmering within his eyes. 'Ginny?' he whispers, voice strained.

She nods and wants to die.

There are no words that could possibly fill the suffocating silence. Harry stares at her, horrified. She stares back. It almost feels as though their guilt is shimmering in the air between them, and Ginny can't bear to be in the same room with him for another torturous second.

She flees.

Her dormitory is cold and empty. Outside, the sun is still hours from setting, but Ginny lies down on her bed and cries herself to sleep.

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Months later, when Ginny hears that Harry and Malfoy are together, her stomach crunches tightly and her heart stops beating for one icy moment. She wonders whether Malfoy loves Harry, whether he worships him the way she once did. She still loves Harry; that sort of thing doesn't simply drift and fade. But she knows what she would become with him at her side, and perhaps she can see a little of that in Malfoy's eyes when she passes him in the halls. She thinks that they probably have a lot more in common with each other than she previously might have realised. Ginny might even feel something more than affinity for him, although she tries to push such thoughts aside. Sometimes it seems she can think only of the crumpled and satisfied body within the mirror and the shadows that form in silver-grey eyes whenever Harry is around. Sometimes she wonders whether she could help the shadows slip away.

But Malfoy is with Harry now. And Ginny's not sure whether she's sad for herself, or for him.

~fin~
© Augustus, 21-06-2002