Turning Draco's Coat

By

Aeriel Ravenna

Rating: R (for language and later chapters – perhaps a bit of violence as well, but not that much.)

Summary: Hermione Granger, with the help of Dumbledore, sends Draco into a parallel universe where he is Draco Granger, Mudblood and Gryffindor (as well as Harry and Ron's best friend...) and Hermione is Hermione Malfoy, Slytherin Slut and soon-to-be Death Eater. She goes with him and toys with him, just as he did to her. Will being a Mudblood be enough to bring Draco to the light side? And what will happen when, in the midst of being cruel to Draco, Hermione starts to have feelings for Draco?

A / N : Hey, guys! I've had this idea for a while but have been sitting on it. This chapter is basically an introduction to the idea, and you get a bit of background and whatnot. It's hard to put into a summary without giving it all away, but this'll be cool! I hope . . . Please leave a review, even a short one, to tell me how this is. Thanks!

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

This letter is in regard to the idea we formed at the end of term last year. Since there are only two weeks until school starts, I thought maybe we should start working on it. I have quite a few formulas that may come in handy. I understand if you are otherwise occupied, but may I, with your permission, come back to Hogwarts a bit early to work on it?

Sincerely,

Hermione Granger

Hermione Granger sighed and twisted a curl between her thumb and index finger. What DID you write to a professor when you needed the vast library of Hogwarts to work on a project which he had asked her to do? She assumed it was probably alright, but she did have to ask, didn't she? This letter is terribly awkward, she thought. Oh, well, not much I can do about it.

She reluctantly rose from her seat at the fine black cherry wood desk that graced her organized little bedroom. She crossed the small room to the window, where a cage, containing a medium sized, yellow-eyed, brown feathered owl, was hung.

"Out you come, Grethel. Could you take this to Dumbledore for me?" She asked politely as she tied the letter to the owl. She was still not used to demanding her owl to deliver letters, although Harry and Ron always teased her about her owl-post etiquette. Harry and Ron, she thought, and sighed again.

She hadn't seen them since end of term last year. Harry was forced to stay at his aunt and uncle's house, as it was the only safe place for him. Twelve Grimmauld place had been a nice haven for him, but that was before the place was found and destroyed in the trio's sixth year. Ron, well, Ron was away. His family decided to go on a trip to the Americas, but that was basically only a cover story. The family was there to find a certain few people who could help them win against the final battle.

So, with the two of them, plus Ginny Weasley, her female best friend, gone, she was stuck in her house, with her parents. Not for long, though, thought Hermione.

She sighed once more and laid back on her canopy bed, brushing an few sable strands of hair from her face. She closed her eyes, thinking of her newest project, until a second later when—

"Hermione! Dinner!" her mother called loudly.

"Coming, Mother. I'm coming," Hermione replied, still lying on her bed, very much aware that her mother couldn't hear her.

oooooooooooooo

Miles away from Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy was pacing the ornate hallway outside his father's study. Stupid man, Draco thought maliciously. One day, I swear, I'll-

"Draco, you may come in," Said the cold, smooth voice of his father. Draco quickly wiped his face of all emotion as he stepped into the room.

"I'm here, father," Draco said. He stood, though his father was sitting in an armchair before the fire, his back to his son. Lucius Malfoy gestured for him to come closer. Step by cautious step, Draco did, until he was looming over his father. His father reached out a hand, as if to take Draco's, but instead pulled Draco's shirt, and Draco with it, down to the floor. Draco's knees buckled and he kneeled, the position as familiar as the back of his hand. As the tall boy crumpled himself down, Lucius placed his hand languorously on the boy's hair. Draco winced as the heavy signet ring on his father's index finger clunked against the crown of his head.

"Good. We have some business to attend to. I'm sure you know of which I speak?" Lucius said coolly.

"Yes, sir," Draco replied, voice muffled by the way his head was tucked neatly down.

"Your eighteenth birthday is seven months from now. It is time to think on some matters. I trust that you will be the loyal" and here he grabbed a handful of fine hair, "diligent" jerking his hand it roughly upwards, causing Draco to bite his lip in pain, suppressing a yelp that would only anger his father, "little" another jerk, "slime ball that I know you can be."

"Yes, father," Draco gritted out.

"You do wish to serve my Lord, then?' His father asked, curling his fingers.

"Yes, sir," Draco said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

"Excellent." His father's hand abruptly left his hair. Draco fought the sigh of relief that rose to his lips. "I will tell the Dark Lord of you wise decision. You will be marked the night of your birthday. That will be all. Leave me, now."

"Yes, sir," Draco quickly replied and then hurriedly left.

Draco's feet automatically took him back to his room. As soon as he ended the large, richly decorated room, he fell back on his bed with a loud thump.

Me, becoming Death Eater, he thought. Who would have thought it? He snorted. Hey, maybe now Lucius will stop always being on my back about it. Maybe I'll even get to duel Pot-Head. He smiled. While one side of him really cringed at bowing down to someone else (Draco had always thought of himself as more...superior) he was also going to have a lot of fun as a Death Eater.

Then a thought struck him.

The mark! He thought wildly. Instead of panicking over it because people would see, and know he 'worshipped' an entirely evil being, and maybe try to attack him or throw him in Azkaban, he began to worry about his appearance. Damn! That stupid bloody thingy will ruin my perfect complexion! Really, it's not even that attractive—what will my ladies say?!? Shit. Maybe I could convince Voldemort to change the dark mark, to something more befitting my personality? Like, maybe a tattoo along the lines of "Draco is sexy"? No, make that "Draco is INCREDIBLY sexy."

"M-master Draco? Your Lady Mother says its t-time for dinner," a house elf standing at his door said, trembling. Draco walked down to dinner, ignoring the pathetic, timid little thing with a smirk on his face. He'd always been very persuasive.

oooooooooooo

Hermione stretched luxuriously and yawned. She'd had quite a good rest. She squinted at the clock, sleepiness blurring her vision. Nine forty-five? Why in hell am I awake this early on vacation? Hermione sat up, her previously cheerful mood replaced by a slightly put-out one. Once she was up, she was up for good, so there was no use dawdling in bed.

Quite suddenly, she heard a gentle 'tap, tap' at her window. Recognizing the sound instantly for the familiar noise of her owl trying to get in, she hurried over to the window. Grethel was always irritable when she had to wait, hovering, outside her window.

Grethel swooped elegantly into the room, and perched, rather thoughtlessly, on Hermione's right arm. Hermione yelped loudly with pain. Grethel shot her an indignant look and left her arm for a quieter perch.

"Someone needs her talons clipped," a rueful Hermione smiled. Grethel squawked angrily—it was quite an odd sound for an owl to make, but then again Hermione supposed she probably wasn't all owl anyway—and flew further away from her.

"Hey—hey, Grethel, d'you, uh, think you could give me that letter please?" asked Hermione awkwardly. Grethel ruffled her feathers up and down a few times before perching within Hermione's reach on the back of her chair.

Hermione gently took the letter from the owl, and quickly read it.

Dear Miss Granger,

I apologize for not thinking of this earlier. Of course, how you are to get here is the tricky part. As you are underage and cannot apperate just outside Hogwarts grounds, and a portkey would be far to much trouble, may I suggest you take the Knight Bus here at your earliest convenience?

As this project will take considerable time to research and set up, I recommend that you pack for the rest of the school year instead of coming here and going back.

Thank you for bringing this matter to attention.

Signed,

Albus Dumbledore

Hermione smiled to herself at the thought of her little project. It WOULD be fun! And very effective, of course, if it worked. But Dumbledore thought it would, and she had faith in Dumbledore.

Hermione hummed a cheerful tune as she packed her clothes into her trunk. She looked wryly at her old robes. They wouldn't fit her anymore; she'd have to go to Madame Malkin's and get new ones. She sighed. Merlin, but growing and, for lack of a better word, maturing were very tough on one's wallet. She already had had to buy a mostly all-new wardrobe of clothes. All of her old ones were embarrassingly tight around certain areas and she seemed to have finally grown hips, making all her old jeans fit oddly. Still, she couldn't quite say she disliked her new, more womanly figure.

Smiling, Hermione made her way downstairs to the smell of waffles. Ah, she thought. Life is good. The only thing that could make life better is if—well, if Voldemort died. And if I got a boyfriend. And if Ron would stop liking me. And—no, I think that's it.

ooooooooooooo

Draco Malfoy woke with a jolt to the unpleasant feeling of a house elf prodding him (with a rather sharp nail, he noted,) and repeating softly, "Master Draco, Master Draco, it is being time for you to get upsies,"

Draco moaned and pushed the house elf's hand away. The elf continued to repeat the phrase, as she had been trained to do. Bloody thing never shuts up, does she? thought Draco, as he slowly raised himself up out of his bed. "Alright, alright, I'm awake, no need to keep repeating all that bloody nonsense." He said irritably. The elf bowed and made her (for it was clear that it was indeed a female) way out the door.

He headed immediately for his en suite bathroom, wincing slightly as his feet encountered the cold marble floor. He quickly stripped and entered the large shower, turning up the water to the hottest it could go. He sighed and let himself relax in the steam. He lathered a musky-smelling soap onto his hands and ran it over his body, pausing here and there to rub the scarce scar or cut.

Draco Malfoy had exactly twelve scars on his body. To many muggles, this would be a moderately normal amount; however, most wizards who were raised in a wizarding household had very few, perhaps two or three. There were spells to remove scarring, he knew, and he had had many cuts and wounds before that had been healed by them.

These twelve were spelled to stay on his body. These twelve were not removed because they were there to remind him of acts of insolence, disobedience and wrongdoings that he did. They served as a punishment and a reminder. Only a few of them were very noticeable, for if they were all obvious people would wonder.

Draco slowly traced the outline of his largest scar. It was about two and a half inches long and narrow. Placed on his side, it was the after mark of a whipping given to him when he accidentally defended a muggle-born friend. He hadn't known the boy was muggle-born, of course, but the fact remained.

Draco shook his head, clearing it of the memory. He rarely thought on his scars, now; there were more important things to think about. Oh, it wasn't as everyone thought; he wasn't beaten on a regular basis and he was not 'scarred' by it. He understood perfectly that as a Malfoy, he had a reputation to uphold and when he didn't, he would be punished. He accepted that, perhaps even liked it, after awhile. He liked his life orderly and he liked having rules. He was thrilled to be Head Boy; if for no other reason than he was allowed to uphold rules and punish those who didn't, though his idea of punishment was a lot different from many other peoples.

He quickly rubbed shampoo into his hair and rubbed it out, then stepped out of the shower.

Ten minutes later, he was dry and dressed. Draco's hair hung loosely (it was silver blond and hung to about the top of his earlobes. It had an endearing habit of flopping into his eyes and Draco had developed a highly sexy way of flicking it back nonchalantly, in a way that made girls swoon and boys glare enviously at his crowning glory.) Hair still slightly damp from the shower, Draco sighed and slowly made his way to the door of his bedroom.

Stepping into the hall, Draco looked around him. His mother was just stepping out of her room; she turned and smiled at him, though the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. It never did.

"Draco, darling. You missed breakfast," his mother greeted him.

"Yes, sorry about that, Mother," he said. She took a step towards him.

"Well, what are your plans for the day, boy?" she asked, though she didn't seem very curious.

"I'm going to go to Diagon Alley, pick up my school things early and maybe see a few friends,' he said coolly. Get out of my way woman, your wasting my time! He inwardly screamed.

"Alright, dear. Here, use the fireplace in my room, its blazing," she said. He nodded and the two went into her room. A single bed was pushed into the corner and the room was very plain. His father clearly did not favor his mother much anymore. Draco threw a bit of proffered floo power into the fire, then pecked his mother's cheek awkwardly and cried, "Diagon Alley!" and stepped into the flame.

Standing in the position he had fondly called 'Floo Stance' as a child (standing with his hands clasped together, his head bent slightly) he allowed the odd sensation of traveling through fireplaces to lull him to a dreamlike state. He quickly snapped out of it when he arrived promptly at the fireplace hearth that had been erected in the center of Diagon Alley. He stepped out, as gracefully as possible for a six-foot-tall boy.

ooooooooo

Draco was just finishing his shopping in Florish and Blotts when someone tapped his right shoulder. Turning around, he saw his closest (for lack of a better word) friend, Blaise Zabini. Draco looked down (Blaise was only five foot eight, so he could do so and not look like a prat) at the grinning brunet boy and arched an eyebrow.

"Zabini," Draco said, tonelessly.

"Malfoy," Blaise said smoothly, not missing a beat. Draco grinned; he had missed Blaise's comic, cynical outlook on life over the holiday.

"Looking like a git, as usual, I see," Malfoy said.

"Damn right. And proud of it," Was Blaise's reply.

"Yes, right. Now, what was it you wanted?" This was their relationship, take it or leave it. They spoke in a battle of rejoinders, false stiffness, and putdowns, and unless you carefully observed the two, it was almost impossible to see the way they slyly hid information into their banter. To the casual onlooker, they were calmly bickering acquaintances.

The two continued to amiably argue.

"Are you going to do it?" Blaise asked, suddenly, in the middle of a cutting remark that Draco was making.

"Yes, of course," replied Draco, startled. "Why?"

"Just wondering, that's all," Blaise said, pointedly not looking at Draco's face.

"And you?" Draco asked, after a careful moments pause.

"I'm a Zabini, mate. Neutrality is key, although I'm not disputing that for a few thousand galleons we wont—" Blaise started, grinning, but Draco cut him off.

"Shut up. Not here. Anyways, I'm off getting new robes at Madame Malkins, my old ones are looking almost like I've worn them by now." Draco said.

"See you, then."

"Right." Draco walked off, feeling unusually annoyed by his fried. Draco made his way down the Alley, which was pretty crowded for a typical summer day before school.

He finally got to Madame Malkin's, but only by shoving, pinching and pulling people out of his way. When he entered, he saw that she already had a customer. The bell over the door rang, rather late and lamely. Madame Malkin bustled over to Draco and directed him over to a stand to be measured.

He had to rather roughly pushed, though, because at the moment he was rather preoccupied by glaring balefully at one Hermione Granger.