The Switch

Hermione Granger lay quietly in her four poster bed, the soft velvet curtains gently waving in the breeze coming through the open window. Nearby she could hear Parvati, mumbling about "Harry the bastard" in her sleep, and Lavender's grating snores.

Hermione was having trouble getting to sleep, and for good reason. The past few days had been puzzling and frustrating for the young Muggleborn. Sighing, Hermione rolled onto her stomach, closed her eyes, and fell into the deep stupor that to the untrained eye appeared like a well deserved rest.

But our story begins a week beforehand, the third week of our Golden Trio's sixth year at Hogwarts. Like any other day, Hermione skipped merrily into the Great Hall and chattered away noisily with her two best friends. And by "skipped merrily" I mean "trudged gloomily into the Great Hall and sat with Harry and Ron in stolid silence."

"Er...Hermione?" Ron asked tentatively. "Is there something wrong?" He immediately recoiled, expecting a smack over the head, but eventually lowered his hands in surprise when he realized that no such slap was coming.

Hermione shrugged stubbornly. "I think that I've done something to offend Neville," she explained, gesturing towards the rather portly, round boy down the table. Neville was hunched over in his seat, talking softly to Trevor. When he noticed Hermione staring, he shot her a fierce glare and then proceeded to avoid eye contact.

Harry glanced stealthily (or what he thought was stealthily) at Neville's gloomy form. "He's probably just pissed off because you turned him down when he asked you out. For the third time this summer," he said slyly, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

"Oh, shut up, Harry," Hermione snapped. "Neville doesn't want me," she added inaudibly.

Later that same day, Neville continued to shun her, flat out refusing her help in Potions class.

"I can make a bloody Soothing Draught myself!" he finally exploded, as she attempted to inconspicuously drop in a clove of forgotten garlic.

"But it's purple!" Hermione explained hastily. "Without the garlic it's completely off, it's supposed to be y--"

Across the room, Snape glanced up from a scroll of tattered, browning parchment. "Yellow, Miss Granger?" he asked, his lip curling into a sneer. "Indeed. Ten points from Gryffindor for assisting Mr. Longbottom in an individual assignment. And perhaps another ten for your astonishing lack of potions skills, Mr. Longbottom."

Hermione meekly turned back to her own perfect potion, but not before flicking the garlic into Neville's cauldron. Neville, completely oblivious, turned a brilliant shade of fuchsia.

A few days passed, and Hermione began to wonder if this episode was caused by Neville's apparently persistent crush on her. For Merlin's sake, he'd even resorted to random acts of immense immaturity; the last time she'd passed him in the hallway, he'd stuck out his tongue and made a face at the back of her head as she'd walked away.

Hermione didn't want to think that shy little Neville could so worked up over her plain self. The reassurance she'd given herself a few days earlier slowly became a sort of mantra as she repeated it over and over. Neville doesn't want me, Neville doesn't want me, Neville doesn't want me, Neville does NOT want me...

"Hermione, you've got to do something about this whole Neville thing," Ron barked, slamming his books on the table by Hermione. "He's started to give us the cold shoulder, too."

"Yeah," agreed Harry as he plopped into an armchair by the fireplace. "We were partners in Divination, and he went Trelawney on us. 'You will both die a terrible, indescribably horrific and painful death.'" Harry finished with a grin. "Like I haven't heard that one before."

"What did you do to him, 'Mione?" Ron said moodily. He opened his copy of How to Unlock the Hidden Secrets of Your Mind, stared blankly at it, and heaved it shut again.

"I told you, I don't know!!" Hermione shrieked, jumping out of her chair. "I don't know what I did to him, I don't know why he hates me now and if you two don't shut up about it then you deserve to be hated too!" With that out of her system, she sank back into her chair and took a deep, cleansing breath. It was then that she noticed the score of eyes gazing uneasily at her from all over the common room.

"I--I'm going to bed now," she announced, and she stomped up the stairs to her dormitory.

"Well, I don't know what all that was about," said Neville loudly from a far corner of the common room.

And so we rejoin Hermione lying in bed, feeling humiliated and rather defeated. Right then and there, she resolves to find out what this is all about. Once and for all.

On Saturday morning, Neville woke up late. Feeling well rested, he stretched widely and yawned.

"Ouch!" came a voice by his elbow, as his outstretched fist connected with a jaw.

Neville's eyes snapped open. He glanced wildly about the dormitory, before his eyes fell on the girl sitting in an oaken chair by his bed. Hermione was clutching her cheek, looking rather pained.

Neville nearly broke his vow of animosity to apologize, but luckily he caught himself in the nick of time. So, instead, he simply rolled his eyes and clambered out the other side of his four poster. Slightly more unluckily, he forgot that he had tied the curtains on that particular side, so he tripped and fell, tangled in the hangings of his bed.

Looking up, all Neville could see were Hermione's neatly polished shoes. "Neville, I just want to talk," Hermione said quietly.

"What if I don't want to talk to you?" Neville replied curtly, standing up with a bit of difficulty. He shook his leg loose of the curtains and shuffled to the other end of the dormitory.

"Neville!" Hermione cried, exasperated. She scrambled after him. "Just tell me what I did so I can fix it!" She considered her words. "Well, actually if it's what I think it is, then I can't fix it without being rather disgusted by our relationship," she revised quickly.

"Relationship," Neville scoffed. "I don't want to go out with you anymore." He moved towards the door.

Hermione hared to the doorway and cut him off. "You're not going anywhere until you talk to me," she said menacingly, leaning against the wooden door. "Besides, you're in your jammies."

"Well, I can't exactly change with you here," Neville muttered, backtracking and sitting on his bed.

Glowering at Neville glowering at her glowering at Neville glowering at her, something in Hermione's calm and neatly organized mind snapped. Neville recoiled slightly, as he could have sworn Hermione's amber eyes turned faintly red.

"Just...tell me...what the bloody hell is going on," she snarled.

Neville nodded, frightened into submission. Hermione glared at him. "What was that?" she growled.

"Okay," Neville mouthed, the word nearly inaudible. Hermione left the doorway and sat down next to him, patting his shoulder.

"There there, now, Neville. It's all right," she said soothingly, apparently back to her normal self. "So, tell me what's going on."

Neville sighed. "I think we were switched at birth," he said, his animosity returning. He crossed his arms and turned his back on her.

Hermione laughed. Neville stared disbelievingly at her. "There's nothing funny about that!" he shouted. "It's the source of my unhappiness with my powers for years!"

She hunched over, tears streaming from her eyes. "You idiot," she gasped between chuckles, "is that what this is about?" Regaining her composure, she straightened and wiped her eyes with one hand.

"We can't have been switched at birth," she explained, a stupid looking grin still pasted on her face. "For one thing, we were born at different hospitals." She ticked it off on her right hand. "Two, we're of different genders. In the muggle world, when someone has a baby, the doctor informs them of their child's gender." She raised a second finger.

Neville interjected timidly, "Maybe you were castrated at birth or something?"

Hermione looked horrified. "Eauh...I don't think so," she said, biting her lower lip in disgust. "But," she continued. "Number three, you look nothing like my parents, and I...don't look like yours."

Neville, calmed a bit by this logical reasoning, still looked a bit skeptical. "But my grandmum was acting all strange when I asked her about the night I was born. Plus, when I was little and my mum was still...well, you know...she would always say that when I was born our garden was home to some fairies. And you know how amusing they find it to switch Muggle and Wizarding children."

Hermione was truly confounded at Neville's refusal to believe the truth. "But why me, Neville?" she finally inquired, at a loss for words. "Why not some other Muggleborn?"

"My parents were great Aurors," Neville said quietly. "It would explain why you're brilliant. And it would explain why I'm only good with Herbology."

"Well, as much as it pains me to say this, Lucius Malfoy is a pretty good wizard too. And look at his dunderhead of a son."

Neville gave her a pleading look. "If you don't believe me, then at least help me find out for sure," he begged softly.

"But this entire theory is rubbish," Hermione protested halfheartedly. She was still rather put off by Neville's intense shunning of her for no good reason except for his own hurt feelings.

"I won't stop talking about it for the rest of the year. The rest of my life, even," Neville pleaded, spreading his arms wide to demonstrate the mass of time he was willing to devote to his theory. He widened his eyes and attempted to look sad and innocent.

It worked.

"Fine," Hermione relented, covering her face with her hand in disbelief at her own words. "Two weeks. Just two weeks, okay?"

Neville smiled.