Кассандра Клэр: Draco Dormiens

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he said.

Her expression softened, so he added hopefully: "I´ve been feeling off since, uh, since Draco banged my head into the ground in Potions-" This had been the wrong thing to say. Hermione turned her face away. "It's all right," she said in a very small voice, starting to walk again. "I know you didn't mean it."

What on earth is wrong with me, he thought, following her back towards to the castle. This Polyjuice business is affecting my mind.

They were halfway there when he saw Ron running toward them along the darkening path. "Harry!" he yelled. "I can't believe I missed Care of Magical Creatures! I heard you totally destroyed Goyle!"

"Destroyed is a little strong," Draco protested, but he was laughing as Ron steered him up the path.

"I've got to go to the library," said Hermione as they stepped inside the castle.

"Sorry!" and she ran off without a backward glance.

Ron looked after her curiously. "Is she all right?"

"Just panicked about our Charms exam tomorrow, you know how she is," lied Draco, and felt an annoying little twinge of guilt as he did so.

When they got to the Gryffindor common room, Dean Thomas and Neville Longbottom gestured them over with yells of welcome. Draco wasn't in the mood, though. He pushed past them and headed upstairs, where he sat for a long time staring at the photo album full of wizard photographs of Harry's parents, who waved at him, beamed, and smiled in a way he could never remember his own parents doing.

Hermione had, in fact, gone to the library, but not to study. She needed a moment to think and be alone.

Harry had kissed her. Oughtn´t she to be ecstatic, or at least pleased? She had been thrilled when he had put his arms around her, but seconds later had been swamped by a feeling of terrible wrongness the like of which she had never experienced before. That was why she had pushed him away. She knew Harry so well, she thought, knew how he looked when he woke up, how he sounded when he was tired, happy, afraid, worried; how he smelled, usually like soap and grass from the Quidditch practice field. But this time, when she´d put her arms around him, he´d smelled different….like…pepper?

She groaned and put her head down on the desk. Hermione, she thought, you are so stupid. You´ve been in love with Harry for years, so what if he changed his cologne?

She got up and headed downstairs to dinner.

That night, at the Gryffindor table, Draco sat between Ron and Hermione (who seemed determined to act as if nothing had happened), feeling oddly not hungry.

He pushed his food around his plate with his fork and listened to them laugh and chatter. His mind buzzed with questions. Why had nobody noticed he wasn't Harry? Surely he couldn't be acting like Potter, he hated Potter, he couldn't act like him if he tried. He just looked like Harry, so everyone assumed he was Harry, and so they liked him. Not just Gryffindors, but Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, students whose names Draco had never bothered to learn, came up and chatted with him easily. It was disorienting.

What was more disorienting was that he liked it, it was as if in taking on Harry's appearance he had taken some part of Harry into himself, and he couldn't kill it or destroy it. It just sat there in his chest, making him do things like rescue Neville's toad, save Hermione from the Bludger and….and kiss Hermione. He couldn't believe he had done that, either. Why? It must be that Harry had some kind of feelings for her, and now Draco had them. But if she knew….knew who he really was…..

Something that had been nagging at the back of his mind suddenly crystallized into a sharp and painful thought. What if Harry died? What if he never woke up?

Would he, Draco Malfoy, be doomed to be Harry Potter forever?

"Harry," came Hermione's voice, "What's wrong? You look a million miles away."

Draco pushed his chair back from the table and stood up suddenly. "Got to go," he muttered, and, pushing his way past a startled Ron and Hermione, he ran out of the dining hall, through the front hall, and up the stairs to the hospital wing.

He banged on the closed door until it was opened by a harassed-looking Madam Pomfrey, whose eyes widened when she saw him.

"What's wrong, Potter, are you ill?" she demanded.

"I'm here because… I need to see….Malfoy," he gasped, out of breath. "Is he still knocked out?"

Madam Pomfrey gave him a look of deep suspicion. "I suppose you might as well know," she said. "Draco Malfoy is no longer with us."

The shock nearly knocked Draco off his feet. His vision dissolved into a swirling blur of colors, and he gurgled, in a sticky sort of voice, "Is he…is he…he's not dead?"

Madam Pomfrey looked shocked. "No, Potter, of course he isn't dead!" she snapped. "Really! He's been sent home temporarily. His father came and picked him up this afternoon."

And she shut the door in Dracoś face.

There was light, faint at first, sharpening to a sudden, stabbing beam. Harry groaned and rolled over, opening his eyes.

He wanted to sit up, but amazement kept him pinned to the bed. He was lying in a bedroom, but a bedroom the like of which he had never seen before. The walls were carved out of unpolished stone, and the ceiling rose so high it disappeared into shadow, despite the bright sunlight that was pouring through the arch-shaped leaded glass windows that lined the room. The huge four-poster he was lying on, canopied in black velvet printed with silver snakes, was the only piece of furniture in the room apart from an enormous wardrobe propped against the far wall, the front of which was covered with an ornate design of gilded letter "M" s.

It was the Mś that did it. Harry sat up and swore out loud, staring down at his hands — they were not his hands — long, pale, and unfamiliar. He touched his forehead and felt no scar. Finally, in desperation, he yanked out a handful of his hair and stared down as the silvery-white strands sifted down to the black bedclothes.

He was still Draco. And what was worse, he was — somehow — in Draco Malfoyś house. He must have been passed out cold for a long time, someone must have brought him here.

Right on cue, the door burst open, and Lucius Malfoy stood framed in the doorway. He was wearing black, as he had been wearing black every time Harry had ever seen him. Harry felt himself going cold with apprehension.

"So, boy," said Lucius, striding over towards the bed. "Do you know who you are, now?´ Harry stared at him. Surely Lucius couldn´t know who he really was. If he knew he had Harry Potter in his house-"Draco Malfoy," he said. "Your son."

Lucius´ face split into a cold smile. "I told that Pomfrey woman she didn´t know what she was talking about," he said, satisfied. "Thereś nothing wrong with you, boy. No Malfoy has ever forgotten who they are."

Harry looked into Dracoś fatherś cold gray eyes and said nothing. His throat seemed to have closed up.

"Well, since you´re here," said Mr. Malfoy, "We might as well have some fun."

He drew his cloak aside and Harry saw a long silver sword strapped to his side. His stomach plummeted. He doesn´t believe I´m Draco, he thought desperately, Heś going to hack me into bits.

"How about a spot of fencing practice?" Lucius Malfoy went on. "Test your mettle, boy."

Great, thought Harry, who had never even seen a fencing match. He does believe I´m Draco, and heś still going to hack me into bits.

"All, right, Father," said Harry, striving for Dracoś drawling tones. Mr. Malfoy was looking impatient, so Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed and nearly yelled when his feet touched the ground — it was like ice. Mr. Malfoy didn´t appear to be worried about his son freezing his toes off, however — he hurried out of the room, and Harry, still barefoot, followed.