“Oh, Merlin,” Draco groaned as he looked at himself in the mirror. He pulled at a stand of long, blonde hair and gazed into reflected blue eyes. “And tits, too! Sort of.”

Nearly two months ago, Draco had finally begun his mission, lovingly and egotistically calling it The Malfoy Feint. If Wronski could have one, so could Malfoy. Never mind Draco’s had nothing to do with Quidditch.

Draco spent a month brewing the Polyjuice Potion, and nearly another working up the nerve to actually use it. He wasn’t a Gryffindor, after all, and bravery was not his forte. But cunning certainly was, and that’s what he’d decided this plan was: cunning. The Malfoy Feint had, in actuality, been nearly three years coming. He just didn’t ever have the guts to carry it out.

Standing in front of the long mirror in the corner of the Room of Requirement, Draco was beginning to wonder why he’d chosen to transform into Luna Lovegood. Surely Potter wouldn’t be so desperate as to fancy her, would he? The girl was a raving lunatic, which Draco assumed her parents had realised from the very moment she was born. Why else the name?

As he fastened the clasp on the stolen Ravenclaw cloak, Draco took a last look at himself (or herself) in the mirror before deciding he was as ready as he ever would be. He just hoped Crabbe and Goyle had been able to lure Luna away (with the promise of seeing a Crumple-Horned Snorkak) to be locked safely in a broom cupboard, the victim of a Body-Bind Curse. It was now time to make his way to the library where he knew Potter to be; Professor Snape had assigned a particularly long essay over the week-end.

Making his way down the steps was easy enough. It was when he was exactly thirty-two paces from the library doors that Draco’s stomach began to lurch. No, bravery was definitely not his forte.

“P- Harry,” Draco said as dreamily as he could, and walked up to the boy seated alone at a long table. “You’re looking handsome today.” He nearly choked on his own spit.

Potter looked up, bemused. “Er, thank you?”

“Not that you don’t look handsome everyday,” the fraudulent Luna continued, looking lustful. “Those green eyes-” Harry jumped up from his chair so quickly, he lost his balance and fell backward. Draco breathed an inaudible sigh of relief as he turned and walked out of the library and back to the Room of Requirement to wait out the rest of the hour. “Well,” he said to Luna’s reflection once he’d gotten there, “I guess it isn’t you who has Potter’s knickers in a twist.” He allowed himself a few moments more to ponder the state of said knickers before stripping off Luna’s robes. Draco made a mental note to shower repeatedly once he changed back into himself.

“Draco?” Crabbe was standing (predictably) next to Goyle at the entrance to the Slytherin common room. “She’s been Obliviated.”

“Good,” Draco answered, distractedly. He was too busy planning his next move to bother with the likes of them. He was having trouble deciding whom to transform into next, Granger or the Weasel girl. Neither one was particularly appealing. “Which is less repulsive, the Mudblood or the Traitorous Scum?”

“Er, well,” Goyle stuttered. “The Scum, I reckon. None of that nasty Muggle blood in her.” Draco nodded his agreement and made another mental note. He then made a third reminding himself to get a quill and some parchment to write these things down on.

The next Saturday night found Draco back in front of his mirror in the secret room, grimacing at the smattering of freckles across his nose. He was not accustomed to seeing his fair face blemished, whether or not it was his fair face he was actually looking at. And just being there like that made him feel millions of Galleons poorer. “If it’s you,” he said to Ginny Weasley’s ugly mug, “I’m having Potter committed to St Mungo’s before the night’s out!”

Draco waited patiently outside the Gryffindor common room for someone to come by and give him the password. He’d been waiting nearly fifteen minutes when Longbottom showed up. When he couldn’t remember what it was, they stood in the corridor together. Draco couldn’t help but notice the way Longbottom was eyeing him, or Ginny Weasley, as the case was. Ten minutes later, Granger and the Other Weasley came walking up, and Draco felt an odd wave of relief. He was sure that if he’d had to stand there much longer, he would have drowned in Longbottom’s drool.

“We can’t remember the password,” Draco explained when Granger asked what they were doing in the corridor. He hoped he sounded enough like the Weaselette not to arouse Granger’s suspicions.

“Honestly,” she sighed, shaking her bushy-haired head. Draco had to fight a bout of nausea when he thought about her being his next victim. “Crumple-Horned Snorkak,” Granger said, and the Fat Lady swung wide, rolling her eyes at Draco and Longbottom.

When the four students climbed through the portrait hole, Draco saw Potter sprawled out on the couch with his arms behind his head. His pyjama top was lifted just enough for Draco to see a stripe of tanned skin, and one leg was dangling off the edge of the couch. Draco’s breath hitched, and he was glad he was a girl for the moment, otherwise his sudden arousal wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. He shrieked Potter’s name the way he thought the girl Weasley would do it, and launched himself at the boy.

“What the blue hell?” Potter did not seem to be enjoying his Lap Full O’Weasley. He was trying with all his might to scramble out from beneath her.

“I tripped,” Draco drawled innocently, batting his eyelashes and copping a quick feel. He would have said more, but the real Ginny Weasley came through the portrait hole before he could. He barely made it up and out before the looks of shock wore off the Gryffindors’ faces and they belatedly sprung to action.

Draco was panting by the time he reached the boys’ toilets. He knew he didn’t have time to run all they way back up to the seventh floor, and he couldn’t go back to the dungeons looking like a Weasley. The potion would wear off in half an hour, and he was fairly certain Saint Potter and his disciples would never think to look in here for the impostor. He sat on the toilet seat and waited, all the while picturing the way Potter had looked lying on the couch. He was so lost in his reverie that he didn’t notice when Potter and the Weasel did come in.

“Didn’t you say last week that Looney Lovegood had come on to you in the library?” Weasley’s uncultured voice echoed harshly against the tile walls. Draco could hear the sound of a zip being lowered followed by a splash coming from two cubicles down. He quieted his breathing and tucked his feet up.

“Yeah,” Potter answered, coming to the realisation of what his friend was saying. “This just gets weirder by the minute!”

“Wonder if Hermione’s caught her.” Weasley zipped his trousers and flushed. “I’d like to know who fancies you so much, she has to pretend to be someone else.” He hesitated for a moment, then laughing, continued. “Too bad she’s barking up the wrong tree!”

Back in his dorm and safely in bed, Draco replayed Potter’s reactions to Lovegood and the Weasley girl, and the toilet incident in his head. He pondered the Weasel’s words, and came to a delicious conclusion: Potter was a ponce. He knew what his next move would be, but he wasn’t sure if he could bring himself to make it.

By Monday morning at breakfast, the entire school knew someone was using Polyjuice potion to seduce Harry Potter. All sorts of rumours were flying, and theories ranged from it being a Death Eater plot to a ploy to unnerve Potter on the Quidditch pitch. Draco was amazed that his name never once came up, especially with the Quidditch theory being tossed around. Didn’t anyone think he was clever enough to pull something like that off? “Imbeciles,” he muttered into his juice glass before taking a healthy swig.

Three days later, after personally having seen to the Weasel’s broom cupboard incarceration, Draco stood once more in front of the mirror in the Room of Requirement. He definitely did not like what he saw. He was again freckled from top to toe, and the most obnoxious ginger hair sprouted from his head. What Potter saw in this git, Draco could not decide, but with a shrug, he headed down to Gryffindor Tower.

“Crumple-Horned Snorkak,” Draco spoke to the Fat Lady, and she let him in. He mused for a moment on the stupidity of the Gryffindors for not having changed the password before stepping through the hole and into the common room. Granger, unsurprisingly, was hunched over a parchment, stopping writing only long enough to dip her quill in the ink bottle on the table. Potter was cross-legged on the couch, reading his History of Magic text. Several other students were about the room, studying as well.

“Ron,” Potter said, pulling his glasses off and rubbing his eyes. “Where you been, mate? We were beginning to think you fell in!”

“I, er, found some Slytherins creeping round the halls, so I had to give them a detention. On principle.”

“Brilliant! Anyone I know?” Potter smiled, and Draco nearly melted through the floor. He would never admit it to another soul, living or dead, but he could wank to the memory of a Potter Smile for days.

“Not Malfoy, if that’s what you were hoping.” Draco smiled back at Potter. It felt nice. He shuddered.

“Bloody Malfoy. I’m still wondering how a great git like him gets to be a Prefect.” There was a trace of jealousy in Potter’s voice. Draco wasn’t sure why that didn’t please him overmuch. “Sodding Death Eater.”

It took Draco a moment to remember he was not himself, and he was barely able to stop a smart reply from escaping his lips. He cleared his throat and flopped next to Potter on the couch. He waited a moment to see what would happen, and when nothing did, he cleared his throat again. He was almost expecting Potter to reach for his hand or lean in for a kiss.

Fifty minutes passed, and all Potter wanted to do was talk about Quidditch, much to Granger’s chagrin. “Don’t you two have homework to do?”

“Binns won’t notice a few inches short, Hermione. And besides that, I haven’t been able to talk to Ron like this for days!” Potter smiled again, and Draco felt the heat pooling in his groin. Ron’s groin.

“Come up to the dorm for a tick,” Draco said to Harry. “I want to talk to you about something, er, personal.” He jerked his head toward Hermione. “No girls allowed.” Potter nodded and the two went up the stairs to the boys’ dorms.

“I wanted to talk to you about this Polyjuice business without Hermione getting involved.” It took all of Draco’s mental energy to remember she had a given name. “You know how she gets.”

“Do you have any idea who it might be?” Potter dropped onto his bed, sounding hopeful. Draco sat down facing him. “My curiosity’s killing me!”

Draco thought for a moment before answering back. He honestly had no idea what to say- he’d only brought Potter up here to see if he acted differently once they were alone. He did not. “Er, Malfoy?”

“Malfoy? You can’t be serious!” Potter wasn’t just smiling now, he was laughing. Draco wished he could laugh like that. “Although,” he started, but didn’t immediately elaborate.

“Yeah, probably not Malfoy.”

“That wouldn’t be half bad.” Something unrecognisable had flickered across Potter’s face, and Draco was speechless for the second time that day. He was so shocked to hear those words from Potter’s mouth, that he had no idea what to do next. “Malfoy is rather sexy, in a conniving arsehole sort of way.”

And there was the third. Draco forgot himself and brushed the back of his hand across Potter’s face. Potter did not draw back.

Had Draco been paying anything any sort of mind, he would have realised that the hand brushing Potter’s face had been smooth and pale, and the fingernails neatly manicured. Then again, it’s hard to notice such things when one’s eyes are closed, and one is suddenly being kissed within an inch of one’s life.

Potter’s fingers deftly unfastened the clasp of Draco’s cloak, and it slid off his shoulders and onto the bed. He leant in close and whispered, “You sick fuck,” before taking Draco’s earlobe briefly between his teeth. It was enough to snap Draco out of whatever dream he was in.

“Shit,” Draco breathed, waiting for Potter to hex him into the next week.

“You thought I fancied Ron?”

“Er,” Draco began, taking a moment to realise that of all the things Potter could have said, that wasn’t the thing he was expecting. “Yes?”



“No.” Draco was waiting for Potter to ask where he’d stashed the Weasel, but he didn’t. Instead, he went to work on the buttons of Draco’s pilfered robes. Draco didn’t move a muscle. “Why Luna then? And Ginny?”

“That was before I heard you and Weasley talking in the toilets the other night.” Draco shuddered as Potter’s finger traced a path down his bare chest. “And- ” he was cut off by another kiss, this one more deliberate and slow. This was definitely not how he imagined his night would go.

“This is it, though, Malfoy. This one time, and that’s it.” Draco nodded. That’s all he really needed. He would never admit it to another soul, living or dead, but he could wank to the memory of a Potter Fuck for years. If he lived that long.

When Potter saw the Mark on Draco’s arm, he winced. His head snapped up and he looked directly at Draco before his eyelids slowly closed. Potter swallowed hard and opened his eyes. Draco could clearly see the disappointment there. “I knew it,” he said quietly before pulling Draco’s robe completely off. “And this is why it can only be once.” Tears began to silently streak down Potter’s cheeks, and the small piece of Draco’s heart that he had been nurturing for the last three years, that he had been saving for this moment, shattered. He reached up and thumbed the tears from Potter’s face, not caring that his own had begun to fall.

“I can’t,” Draco whispered against Potter’s cheek. “I can’t do this, I’ve changed my mind.” He pulled away and gathered Ron’s robes back around his shoulders. “This is not how I wanted this to happen.”

“What did you want, Malfoy? Love?”


- END -

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