
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3252362.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Ginny_Weasley, Draco_Malfoy/Harry_Potter, Draco_Malfoy/Ginny
      Weasley
  Character:
      Ginny_Weasley, Harry_Potter, Draco_Malfoy
  Additional Tags:
      Polyjuice_Potion
  Stats:
      Published: 2002-06-21 Words: 4442
****** Almost Perfect ******
by Augustus
Summary
     Ginny discovers a way to make her dreams come true.
Notes
     Warning: Non-con due to disguised identity.
     Notes: Woo. Polyjuice. One of the oft-used plot aids in HP fandom *g*
     Age 'em up please. I'm thinking seventh year for Harry and Draco,
     sixth year for Ginny.
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 thiswhen 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.
                                     * * *
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 cliché, 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 squawks, 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.
                                     * * *
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.
                                  21-06-2002
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