Full Sneak peek of body switching fic! :) (Patreon)

Here is everything I have written so far for the body switching fic! The next part of Amnesia Harry will be posted next :) 

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i. 

Harry was in an awful mood. 

One of the worst moods he thinks he's ever been in actually, next to when the blame was pinned on him for breaking a glass door with his ball around the time he was ten. It was one so positively bad that even how the wind blows begins to piss him off somehow; the way it pushes his hair out of sorts or makes the fabric of his shirt billow only serves to make him more irate. Even when his phone buzzes with a message, he feels annoyance fizzle from the center of his palms outward until his fingers curl into fists. God save anyone who'd come into contact with him today, because he's fairly certain he's been short with everyone. The few fans he'd stopped for, his smile was but a straight line with the tiniest curve at the corner, and while he would feel guilty later that they didn't get the best picture, he was just too damn grumpy to think about it at all. 

He couldn't pinpoint just what it was that had tipped him over the edge, but he can say that it was many things that had twisted and furled around him into a massive mat of growth that he could not dig his way through. His home on the market wasn't selling and the air conditioner in his current home had broken down and there wouldn't be anyone around to fix it until Monday (meaning he was pushing through three days of blistering hot weather with nothing but his fans that would only be pushing around warm air). He'd ran out of body wash but hadn't noticed until he was in the shower, while he was shaving his face he nicked himself a bit on his jawline, and he'd not been able to find the shirt he'd been planning to wear (only to find it in his laundry room, shrunken small from the dryer). Not only had he made it to the studio late but every lyric he wrote was shit, he couldn't find anything worthwhile to say, every strum of the guitar he fucked up, a nd every press of his fingers to the keys of the piano sounded just awful -- Harry knew it's because he was in his head but that didn't stop it from pissing him off. He'd gone to go get lunch, his favorite sandwich they couldn't make because they were out of kale and he couldn't even get the smoothie that would make him feel better about that, because their machine was down. He was far too close to saying something rude because they were a sandwich and smoothie shop so how the hell couldn't those two things happen, but he bit his tongue, since it wasn't their fault. It wasn't their fault that it broke, nor that they ran out, nor that he was already having a shit day. 

So, by the time he'd made it to this bloody perfume launch that he'd agreed to come to for a mutual friend of his and Jeff's, he had just had it. Wasn't happy, wasn't conversational, didn't want to mingle or speak to anyone, barely even wanted to drink his day away as he would've in any other situation. He just wanted to go home, take a cool shower, get into some comfortable clothes and wallow in his grumpiness until he inevitably fell asleep. Why should he prolong a shit day?

Jeff had realized his poor mood early in the night, when Harry had rolled his eyes at something someone had said before murmuring a low to him, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Harry had lied, because he didn't really want to get into it -- going through the lot of it would only re-anger him even further -- but it was very clear when Harry wasn't happy. 

So Jeff merely pats his back, gives his shoulder a firm squeeze and tells him, "There's a stairway to the roof; you can take a breather if you need it." 

He honestly didn't think he would need it, until someone had accidentally stepped on the toe of his shoe, and for some reason that was the straw that broke the camel's back. Harry nodded at their apology, told them it was fine, but sought out the stairs soon after with nothing but a small flute of champagne and his phone. He had to leave the initial room they were in, stepping into the corridor and merely followed the signs that lead to the stairs for the roof. The stairwell was in a well lit corridor from the penthouse, and there was the resounding opening and closing of doors from below him. There were a few recognized glances that he'd garnered on his way up that he nodded too, but otherwise he climbed just two sets of stairs to the roof, where he pushes open a heavy weighted door against the rush of wind. 

The fresh air was good on him, he'll give Jeff that as much. As it blows against his face, it's cool enough to soothe him and letting him know that once he got home, he could open the windows and that might work some to cool down his room as he slept. He took in a deep breath, spotting a gathering of tables -- Harry presumes that it's necessary to rent it out or summat because all of the seats say reserved, but Harry goes and takes a seat. It feels good just to be away from everyone and everything, letting himself relax and only then realizing that he was wrung taught as a bow. 

But just as he was actually calming down, the creak of the roof door rings out through what had been the quiet of the night and he felt himself get angry all over again. 

There was a snuggle and a sniffle, the tell tale breathing of a shaky cry that would suggest someone was having a poor a night as he was and while he was empathetic, he was happy that he wasn't them at the very least he guesses. His day had been shit but not shit enough to make him cry and he was lucky in that sense. 

He turned to face where the sound was coming from, seeing a girl who did not appear to be from the party he'd been attending. She was in a soft looking sweatshirt, the sleeves pulled over her fists as she knuckles at her eyes, and she wanders over to the table just a few from him, plopping down and lying her head down. And Harry wishes he could be a person that would ignore this. . .someone who had their own shit to be bothered with, so he'd push himself up and fuck off back to his party. 

But he does care -- of course he bloody cares! 

Harry clears his throat some, leaning forward, "'xcuse me," he begins, noticeably startling her and her head pops up, showing her puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks, "Are you okay?" 

"Oh," she sounds surprised that he would care, sniffling hard, running her fist beneath her nose, "Oh, m'fine, s'just -- it's a shit day is all." She wipes against her eye, shaking her head, "M'exhausted, school is hard, I've bout a thousand bills that I can't pay and my boss is a bastard and I've been hiding a cat in my flat and I'm almost positive my landlord knows and is going to make me get rid of him." A wipe to the other eye, and Harry feels his heart sink for her, "Plus I'm drunk, I think my friends left me. And now I'm crying to a stranger for no reason and it's just -- it's a bad day." A hiccup leaps through her, heaving her chest as she looks up and she must finally register his face for the first time because something within her gaze shifts, "Oh!" She repeats, sounding even more surprised than before, "You're Harry Styles? Or am I drunker than I thought?" 

He smiles softly, replying, "I am, yeah." 

Now she drags both her hands across her cheeks, "Shit, that's --" she hiccups again, "Tha's really cool. I'm a big fan, I um --" she brushes her mussed hair from her face, her swollen lips still trembling from the remnants of her crying, "Sorry for crying like a baby. Sure you've got plenty else to worry about." 

Well, kind of, is what runs through Harry's brain but he gives his head a firm shake, "No, no, it's okay. How about -- why don't I help you get  an uber home and you can sleep this off. Things will sort out soon and everything will be okay, you've just got to persevere." 

Harry wishes he could a hundred percent believe in his own words but he wasn't all too sure -- he'd never been a college student before. He knows fame problems and struggling through an industry that capitalizes off all the wrong things, but he doesn't know the struggle of bills, or school, or hiding a cat in your flat. He wishes he did -- then he wouldn't feel like such a hypocrite for the positivity.  

Though he'd thought this would make it all better, her eyes pool with more tears as she nods her head, "Thank you," she all but sobs, "You're -- you're so nice." 

So that's what they do. Harry takes her downstairs, makes sure she has her phone, her wallet and keys, orders her an uber off an account he'd had for situations such as this (though it's usually for a friend), and waits outside with her until the blue car with a female driver rolls up in front of the building. The girl, who he had learned was named Y/N, turns to face him, smiling up at him through still bleary eyes, and under the street lights he can make out just how worn she looked, "Thank you again," she tells him, "I -- I won't tell anyone where you are, or anythin'. Have a good night." 

Harry realizes that she must think he lives here and the sentiment of her words is sweet, but he doesn't have a chance to truly think on them or the kindness he finds in her words for promising him secrecy despite being a fan, because it begins to snow. Snow, at the beginning of May -- that doesn't make sense. Apparently Y/N thinks as much too, looking up at the sky before down at her outstretched fingers, then back at him, her face pinched up in confusion, even more so when it stops just as soon as it started, "Weird." She'd murmured, before popping open the car door and slipping into the backseat. 

She waved at him through the window as they drove off.

                                                                        .                                    .                                 .

Y/N was worn thin as she unlocked her door, the sound of the car driving off the only thing on her flat's quiet street apart from her leftover shaky breaths, remnant from her earlier tears. She normally isn't one to cry so the outburst of emotion had left her weary and impatient to was her face and finally rest. A good night's sleep is something she thinks she deserves, after the night she had. 

Her day had started off shit from the start. Not only had she been hit with the fact that finals were rapidly approaching, accompanying several end of the semester projects that she hadn't even begun thinking of starting, but she received an email from her boss at the boutique she worked at threatening to cut her hours (which was utter shit, because she'd came in late two times after she had called to let them know that her class let out late and she'd told them of this scheduling conflict weeks prior but nobody did shit about it). Then there was a mass letter slipped through the crack of her door "reminding" tenants, that anyone with an undocumented animal would be fined and unless they could pay the additional monthly cost, would have twenty-four hours to get rid of said animal. Y/N immediately panicked, wondering if the kitten she had stowed away was making a fuss when she was gone.

The kitten was but a tiny, fuzzy little thing that had been crying outside on the sidewalk when Y/N had gotten back from class one day -- she was far too skinny, her fur was caked with dirt and grime, the corner of her eyes cluttered with dried mucus and she shivered from the chilliness of the air. Y/N picked her up when the cat proved friendly and began to purr, took her inside, thanked the universe for the bag of cat food she had left over from when she'd watched over her friend Jasper's tabby and gave her a hefty handful to satiate her before giving her a bath in the sink (to which she took well), wrapped her up in her fluffiest towel and sat her in front of her portable heater. They'd bonded almost instantly, Y/N thinks, because as soon as she'd blinked open her eyes from a small nap she toddled herself over to Y/N to give her leg a gentle lick while she'd been working. The rest of the night, the kitten had slept and purred in the cradle of her lap, and ever since Y/N couldn't bare to give her away, even if it meant sneaking around her landlord to do so. 

She hadn't even had time to simmer within her stress filled worry, considering she not only had class, but she was called into work for a small two hour shift (which she would have said no to, if not for the fact she was covering for Miss. Caroline, who needed to pick her daughter up from school and take her to her grandparents who lived thirty minutes out, and Miss. Caroline was her work mom, so she couldn't say no with good conscious after all the lunches she'd packed for Y/N in the past), and straight after she was to attend a small gathering of her friends. Well, not her friends, as much as they were her friend Jasper's friends -- they were a moneyed, smarmy bunch that Jasper barely liked to hang out with himself and always requested she go with him so he wouldn't have to be alone. They were in school too, but more so because their parents pushed them to explore and less out of necessity to garner knowledge for a distinct path they're taking. For that reason some of the shit that comes from their mouth is just so outrageously dense and colorful, one would have to be there to believe it, which is another big reason Jasper invites her, "Half the things they say you wouldn't believe unless you heard it with your own ears, I reckon." 

But tonight it was less fun listening to their rose colored lens on life and more crushing as she realized her own situation wasn't ideal. So she'd thrown back far too many drinks, Jasper had slunk off with a leggy brunette in one of the back rooms, Y/N got needlessly emotional and made her way to the roof where she knew she might be able to cry in peace. 

Well, until she ran into Harry Styles. 

Harry Styles, who was so effortlessly sweet and kind and listened to her cry, then ordered her an uber. She was too drunk and sad to really revel in the greatness of it in the moment, but as she picked up her kitten (who she had named Ragamuffin) and took her with her so she could sit on the toilet while Y/N scrubbed her face clean, she replayed the moment in her head. He smelled good -- like being warm and cozy in a living room during a snow storm; cinnamon and sweets, but like he might have spritz himself with some fancy cologne once or twice. Though she'd reckon he wasn't having that great of a day -- his smile never fully reaching his eyes -- he'd surely put a star on hers. Glistening bright, like a beacon of hope, that maybe everything would be okay. . .he seemed like a nice good luck charm didn't he? 

Once she'd patted her face dry, she grabbed her sleepy kitty (who'd been staring at her and blinking awful slow the whole time), mindful of her little claws as she brought her to the bed with her, flicking on the fan as she passed by the switch. Y/N had peeled off the majority of her clothes, leaving herself in a pair of panties and a bra she wrestles off of herself as soon as she's laid Ragamuffin in the crevice of three pillows. The thick, lavender down comforter that she crawls beneath was one she had spent far too much money on, but the post tax-return splurge was well loved and reflected on the more time she spent with it, especially after days like this one. It puffed around her like cloud and stayed cool enough that she wasn't uncomfortable, but still kept her warm and toasty. She grabs her phone, messages Jasper and their friend Owen about who she had met and how amazing it was and for them to keep their mouths shut about where he was (while also letting Jasper know he was allowed to sleep on her couch as he'd asked to because apparently he didn't leave her at the party, he just got trapped talking to some bloke about his home life for two hours longer than he would have liked and Jasper doesn't like going to an empty flat when he's been drinking). 

Slapping her phone down to mattress, she breathes out a heavy sigh and lets her eyes flutter shut. 

She falls asleep to the gentle coos of Ragamuffin's breath and the thought of Harry floating through her head. 

                                                                      .                                   .                                  .

Harry doesn't normally have weird dreams. 

Or at least as not weird as a dream could be. They're usually just him going through his day, maybe he is naked, and maybe he's riding a horse, or even on a train, but nothing that ever made him wake up feeling confused. He just stretches out, sighs loud, and goes about his day -- nothing that makes him think too hard. 

But last night, it was something to think about. He could remember it so vividly; walking through a blacked out area, nothing around him, almost like he was in an abyss of sorts. It was dark but he could see still somehow, a marble of colors at the far end, distending spiral that swells and ripples around him. He was walking towards it but each step felt like he was dragging his feet through heaps of snow that he'd been planted waist deep in, struggling to push past the heavy weight of it. For some reason he needed to get to it, his arms reaching out, a hand that is his own but warping into something that was not. His mind was muddled with confusion, getting closer and closer to the mass of color, shoving his hand through it, prying himself through finding that is the likeliness of silly putty. There was light on the other side, peering through to him and he wanted out. 

So he pushes and pulls and eventually claws his way out through the marbled putty, into the other side where the light bathes upon him like a warm glimmer of sun on a summer morning. That's when he began to come to, groaning with a long stretch of his toes towards his ottoman and his head up against the headboard, though when he moves beneath the covers they're much rougher than usual. His brows dip forward, wondering what could've changed between the probable eight hours he had slept that the fabric of his comforter would change. Not only that, but he felt like he'd been hit by a truck for someone who hadn't drank much at all. A headache tickles at the edges of his brain, that will him to not even blink his eyes open against what feels like blinding light though he's fairly sure his blackout curtains should've been drawn -- he'd drawn them right before bed the night prior. 

When he does though. . .well, somethings off. 

Because when he opens his eyes, he is not in his room. 

It's a ceiling fan unlike his own; where once there were a brushed steel Koa fan blades, there was now a dusty bleached oak set of four. Did he go home with someone last night? He doesn't quite recall going home with anyone and a bead of panic drips through him when he checks to see if he's tied up by yanking his arms down quick but he's relieved to find that he has full range of movement. That doesn't stop his confusion though, as he moves to press himself up from the mattress to look around this unfamiliar setting. The walls around him were full of posters and artwork that he'd never been privy to. He would've remembered leaving with somebody, especially who has such an eclectic taste in design, and he's never been so confused in his life, rubbing his eyes furiously trying to become accustom to the brightness in the room and praying that whomever it be that he came home with hadn't already alerted their friends who may have itchy fingers ready to tell the free world Harry had had a small lapse in judgement about what he should do with the remainder of his Friday night. 

When he looks to his side he sees that nobody is beside him, which he is thankful for. The morning after a one night stand was always so dreadfully awkward, filled with rushed dressing, panicked conversation and attempting to respectfully tell them they can't say anything to anybody at all before having something produced for them to sign. It was a wreck and why he mostly stayed within his inner circle regarding things like sex -- most everyone who was single was up for a midnight, drunken romp. 

Leaning over, he reached for the phone on the dresser presuming it was his own, but when he looks into the black screen before he clicks it awake he feels his heart drop to his stomach, and his mouth -- or, well not his mouth -- drops open wide. 

Because he wasn't looking at his own reflection. 

Harry screams -- he screams because he knows he's not asleep (several pinches to the thigh proved as such), and he's not in his home, and he's not in his body, and he has no fucking clue what is going on. He screams because when he looks down at his hands they aren't his hands, and when he hears his own scream it's not his scream. Looking down only proves to make him panic more, eyes watering as this only proves that he is not in his body. He is not in his body! How the fucking -- how was this -- this didn't make sense! This didn't make any sense; his mind reels, his thoughts are nowhere near coherent, he barely registers the fact that a boy comes stumbling in, with eyes popped open wide and a toothbrush hung out of his mouth, "Bloody fuck, Y/N, wha's happened? Was it the dream 'bout Tim Curry again?"

"I'm not --" he begins frantically, looking around for the phone that he'd dropped amongst the covers, "M'not Y/N! I'm Harry -- I dunno how I -- I'm not -- this isn't my. . .my body, m'not --" 

"Fuck sake, ya always pick the best mornings for a panic hmm?" The boy's words are fairly muffled, a mouthful of toothpaste that threatens to dribble onto his chin, "C'mon, have a piss n' I'll meet you in the kitchen. Made us gourmet cocoa puffs." 

Harry pushes himself from the mattress far too quickly, wobbling some and his vision spots as he stumbles towards what seems to be the bathroom in the room he was in. This was an elaborate prank right? Harry's not sure how someone might pull this off, but this doesn't just happen. He's not in a bloody movie, or in a book -- it doesn't make sense. 

And when he looks into the mirror, throwing the door shut and not seeing his familiar reflection. Not the hair that had begun to curl around his ears that he thought was in need of a cut, nor the green eyes he'd been complimented on even though he'd hated them, nor his nose, or his jaw, or the mole at the corner of his lips. No, he was staring into the mirror and he wasn't seeing him at all -- it was. . .fuck sake, it was that girl! The one he hadn't sent home! But. . .but  what?

He bites down hard on his lip. . .her lip. . .winds up his palm and swats straight across his face in a desperate attempt to wake himself up, because this has to be a dream. Hell, this  has to be a dream. But it doesn't work. It doesn't work when he leans forward and pokes and prod at this new face, at the lumps on his chest that he'd only been privy to by fondling on other people, the bum that isn't his own, and the arms and legs and eyes. What was he to do? He'd just woken up in the wrong body like a proper Freaky fucking Friday and he has no clue what comes next. He can't just go through this life like he knows what's going on? And where is his body? Is she in his own? How was he supposed to figure that out? Where was he even at right now? 

A burning pressure works at the top of his forehead; something between a hangover and a tension headache making it hard to be submerged in the bright, washed out light of the bathroom. The room around him is unfamiliar. There was a ceramic toilet with the tank lid with a crack at the corner like someone may have dropped it on the ground. The floors beneath his feet were a bit dingy, but it's made up for by the soft, shaggy rug a beautiful lavender color, but other than that and the floral pink pattern of the shower curtain the place is drab and bummy. Where once was an incredible amount of darkened granite counter top space with his skin care, teeth, and other things he'd had specified to him and morning and night routines, it's replaced with a tiny bit of space near the sink with a small, two tiered wooden Lazy Susan that has a few facial care items, about three different Bath and Body Works lotions, and a half emptied bottle of perfume. 

Raising a hand, he presses it against the spot that hurts and piers at himself in the mirror. What, was that girl a bloody witch or summat? A cruel witch! Was it a Beauty and the Beast type test that he brutally lost? But hadn't he been nice? He'd ordered her an uber, made sure she had everything, had her get home -- why had he been switched with her?  

Harry had begun to feel hopeless until an idea sparks in his brain -- he could call! He just had to find her phone. . .when he finds her phone, he could type in his number and it'd ring and she'd find it and hopefully they could get this sorted out. At least he could confront her and see what he had done wrong, if she was a witch that is. If she wasn't a witch, then at least he would have someone to panic with, at the very least. 

He rushes from the bathroom despite the pressing urge in his bladder, scrambling to look through the sheets until there was a soft thud against the mattress of something that'd been tangled in the sheets. Harry grabs for it, hands trembling, feeling like he might be sick even despite the small piddle of gratefulness he feels for technology because all he has to do is hold the phone in front of his face and it unlocks but it is not his face, it's her face, on her phone and. . .fuck sake, this is bad. This is so bad, because he doesn't know what to do and is starting to feel frantic and a bit batty. Not even when he tries to take a step back and think things through like he normally does when he has a problem; it feels like not only had his body been switched with a college student but so did his stress management. He doesn't even want to think about what she might be doing right now. Was she taking this opportunity to drain his bank account? Taking snaps of his house to cell? Marking up the clothes in his closet for ebay?

"Y/N!" There's a call from somewhere else in the home he was in that nearly makes him jump out of her skin, "Hurry or the puffs 'll get soggy and I don't feel like listening to you whine." 

Harry clears his throat, "Just -- just a second!" He responds, cringing away from the voice so clearly not his own. With trembling fingers he types in his number, sucking hard on her bottom lip as he presses call and prays that she'll answer. Even if she were to be a witch or something, she couldn't be so terrible as to ignore his call right? He'd been kind -- there was no need to react in anyway against him, really, or at least he thought so. Maybe she would hear how freaked out he is, see that he'd learned his lesson (whatever lesson that may be), switch him back and everything would be alright, right?

The phone rings and Harry holds his breath, pacing back and forth in the room, feeling the floorboards shift and creak as he tapped his finger against the case. It goes to voicemail, his heart sinks to his stomach, he calls again, only this time it rings three times before there's a click over and the shuffling of someone on the other end, "'Lo?" 

That was his voice! His voice speaking back to him! 

"Listen," he began immediately, "I don't know what the hell I did to you but switch us back please, I -- I've got things to do and I can't do them in this body." 

There's a disgruntled noise, followed by some more shuffling sounds, "Wait a min--"  his voice said on the other line, and his heart is thudding fast, "Why -- why d'ya sound like me? Why m'I -- where am I?" Harry would have figured she was making a good show of it if not for a little pained twick in his chest; something deep within him suggests that this beginning reaction is that of someone who is in his same position. "Holy fuck I -- oh god holy fuck am I -- " there's a clash and clatter of things on the other end and he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, hearing the pads of his footsteps, the hardwood changing to tile, and a very, very, very reverberate scream on the other end. Does this make him trust her wholly? No, not at all, but a glimmer of him is grateful he isn't the only one scared and confused. The solace is that he hasn't lost his mind and that this was truly a situation at hand, albeit one he'd never would have thought would be a problem for him. Kind of like quick sand or running from a dinosaur; it was an obstacle that happened in movies but as time went on he figured he wouldn't have to deal with it in real life. 

"What the fuck?" She says, still alarmed, "What happened?" 

"Wish I could tell you," he feels his (her) teeth biting at his (her) fingernails, "I just woke up and I wasn't me and now you're me and things are fucked, listen -- I'm going to come to you okay? Just stay put and don't answer the door for anyone."

"But --" she begins, though Harry cuts her off just as quick. 

"I mean it. We're g'na figure this out." He hangs up then, looks around to see if there was a purse or anything that he could grab so he could just run out of the flat he was in, but the boy from this morning's arrival is noted by the shift in the floorboards at the door and when Harry looks over he sees that he's cradling a small kitten in one arm, and holding a lavender ceramic bowl in the other.

The boy clears his throat, "Just a second!" He mocks Harry from earlier, only instead of the usual deriding slow drawl people put in place for him, the tone is a bit more pitched, "Me and Rags were waiting out there all patiently for you, but you've been lounging around in here still! Fuck sake, Love," he sets the bowl down on the nightstand, cracking his knuckles. 

Harry doesn't have time for this. No not at all. Not when he's in the wrong body, has no idea what's happening, why it happened, or how to undo it with so many important events coming up so quickly. He was making a new album -- the Met Gala was expecting him to host in his body not this body and not her in his body -- as cliché as it sounded, he had people to meet and places to go, he couldn't afford to have this be a problem for him. 

"Sorry," Harry responds, clearing his throat, "I've actually forgotten I was s'pposed to meet up with someone, so I need'a run." 

Brows furrowing, Jasper shifts the small brown cat into his other arm and tilts his head some in question, "Oh who? Is it Johnathan? Or your new bestie  Harry Styles?" 

Harry feels himself furrow her brows, tilting his head down -- hadn't she said she wasn't going to tell anyone? He really couldn't trust this girl could he? Which means it is essential he returns to his body before she siphons the money from his account into her own. His heart is racing as he shakes his head, brushing the hair from his face and looking around frantically for shoes, his eyes settling on a pair of soft barely padded slippers, "No -- um, s'someone for a project." 

"What project?" Jasper asks inquisitively and Harry gives a heavy sigh, tugging the slippers onto not his feet. 

"You ask loads of bloody questions, y'know that?" 

Jasper doesn't appear to be surprised by this snappish response and Harry wonders if this girl is usually like this, as he snorts through his nose and shakes his head, pressing a kiss to the top of the kittens head, "Aish, Grumpy -- I forget how hungover you reacts to interaction," he pivots on his socked heel, "Whoever it is, don't bite their head off! M'g'na run to the store and buy you more milk 'cos I finished it and I'll tidy up some, so you can rest when you get back." 

This makes Harry's heart lurch some -- Harry really can't remember the last time someone offered to do something so that he could get some rest; it was normally him offering to do things for other people -- and yet it wasn't even really directed towards him. Though that's not enough to make him want to stay in this body any longer, as he scrambles for a purse, finds a set of keys and snatches them out of it, along with a small soft blue wallet and her phone. He distantly remembers that she didn't live too far off from him, but enough of a drive where he knew he'd be anxious the whole damn way. 

He bids a halfhearted goodbye to Jasper who was tugging a shirt over his head before Harry is pushing his way through the door, being met immediately with a dimly lit hallway and an olive green door with the numbers 508 on the door. He figures that she's on the fifth floor, and looking down the hall he sees an elevator confirming as such with a plaque stating 5 on the wall beside it. Harry speeds down towards the elevator, looking down when he notices someone opening their door and seeing feet that aren't his own, so he looks back up. Presses the button with a jab of the finger and listens as it creaks and hums up to him and he wonders what in the hell kind of shitty flat did she have where he had to worry if the damn elevator would make it up to the fifth floor. 

Once it had eventually showed up, the ride down was no better in his feeling safe, and the walk to the car garage was one of a confusing maze where he pushed the panic button and followed the terrible alarm ringing an echo. Harry finally stumbles upon an old, black Volkswagen beetle and a fleeting thought passes of how he's meant to fit in there until he realizes that he isn't in his body. As he was starting it up and listening to the engine rattle to life, he couldn't help but wish he would just wake up. Pinched the fingernails of her hand into her palms in a last ditch effort hoping the bite of pain with startle him with a gasp, eyes popping open in a mess of his sheets to realize that it had all just been an unimaginably realistic dream. 

But he doesn't shake awake. No, he's merely driving in a daze from this possible-witch's flat to his home, a ball of anxiety ridden stress akin to a three year old's drawing; frantic squiggles, misshapen circles, speckled with the old thick finger paints they have in mass stock at daycare. He questions if anything is real, if he and Y/N were the only two to switch bodies, or if this would have happened had they not met in the first place. Was she really some sort of witch? He'd believed crazier things to happen; an enchantress college student who was strapped for cash and had an excuse not only to meet a celebrity she enjoys but to also switch bodies with him and potentially take his money, didn't seem too implausible. Not even risible, actually. Harry was too open-minded to believe that things could be so black and white in the grand scheme of the world, it would be more unbelievable that there weren't underground witches who could do things such as this.

And as he's driving, he notices that the weather is rather nice. One of those days he would take his convertible and have the hood down, letting the warm air whistle past his ears, soaking in the sun that battered down on him (he couldn't do that now because not only was the car he in incapable of shedding its roof, but not even the window would go down entirely -- he paused a quarter of a way from the top which was just enough to convince him having it down was nowhere near worth it). Hadn't it just snowed some last night though? And nobody had spoken of it either. When he'd mentioned as much to Jeff, he'd screwed his face up in uncertainty and asked Harry how much he'd had to drink so Harry had dropped it. Did that have something to do with this? 

His mind is racing with questions he doesn't think will be answered anytime soon, as he pulls up to the gate outside his neighborhood and realizes that he doesn't have his access card nor does he look like himself and Bobby -- the very sweet middle aged guard in the small security post at the front -- was very wary of people who came saying Harry by name. For a moment a bead of panic drips down his spine because while he did have the access code, he didn't know if Bobby would let him slide with just that. 

When he slowly inches up to the window of the post, he's greeted by the same friendly mustached man he normally speaks with only his face is set a little sterner, "Who are you hear to see, Ma'am?" 

Harry clears his throat, looking from the dainty hands that were not his sat on the steering wheel back to Bobby, "Harry Styles. I have his access code." 

Bobby's face almost immediately sets in somewhat of a frown, "Go ahead with the code." 

Harry rattles it off, no pauses, and he doesn't know if that makes him suspicious or not but as Bobby slinks back into the post looking skeptical he catches sight of the Little Shop of Horrors playbook that he'd pinned up on their board. If there was one thing Harry had learned about the weathered security man, it was that he loved people who loved what he loved. So he says quickly, "You like Little Shop of Horrors?" 

He catches him off guard, Bobby's brows raise and he smiles some, "Yeah, actually. It's my favorite." 

He flashes a grin that he hopes is sweet (he isn't sure how to work her features), "It's my favorite too! I love Suddenly Seymour -- I think it's way underrated." 

Bobby leans back, hands on his shoulders like he can't believe it, "You know that is my favorite as well! Ellen Greene's vocals are immaculate." 

"Don't I know it! Literally, nobody could beat it." 

"Can't believe I've found my theatre twin," he shakes his head with a grin, leaning over and pushing in the code on the screen as the large iron gates begin to pull open, "You have a good day now." 

Harry smiled, nodding his head and patted himself on the back for being the smartest person alive as he drives through. He slowly navigates through the roads, his heart thudding against his chest as he sees the driveway of his home coming to view. He's worried that she won't even let him in, but that doesn't slow him from parking the car haphazardly, and nearly jogging up to the door but he realizes that there are two things on his chest that don't allow this to be as easy as usual. He doesn't have his keys, so he knocks on the door in ten persistent and loud reps of his knuckles. 

It takes a while -- at least three minutes of waiting, knocking some more, and hearing his voice tell him, "Hold on, hold on!" The locks sound, the knob twists, and the door swings open revealing him. His eyes staring back at him and Harry feels her eyes well with tears, because this is real. This is very, very fucking real and he doesn't know how to fix it. 

She must know it and he sees his features contort, as she shakes his head, "No, no, don't cry! Don' cry, we'll fix it, yeah? We'll fix it."  

"What d'ya mean we'll fix it?" He snuffles, pushing his way past her and into the house, dropping her phone onto the small table near the door and turning towards her, "You did this, didn't you? You switched our bodies?" 

"No!" She sounds deeply offended, face twisting in exasperation, "Why would I do this, huh? M'just as confused as you are." 

Harry presses into her eyes, "Fuck sake, that can't be! You did this -- you had to have done this or. . .fuck sake, you had to have!" 

"Well I didn't!" He sees his own face, his own brows furrow as he his head shakes and he's not controlling it and it's so fucking mind boggling he doesn't know what to do, "If I did, don' you think I would've ignored the call? Or even left before you even came over? How do I know that you didn't do it?" 

"What, you think I want to be a college student with money problems?" He says more snappily than he usually is, but he can't help it! He's stressed out and he didn't want to be accused of something he hadn't done; however, he can't say that he has no guilt when she looks legitimately hurt by his words. 

Y/N huffs, "I know you're scared -- I am too -- but that doesn't give you an excuse to be a jerk, okay? Let's just -- let's just retrace our steps, maybe we pissed off an old woman or something." He is frustrated that Y/N is being more levelheaded than he is right now but he figures he has much more on the line than she does! What, she'd miss a few tests would she? What about him? The Met Gala? An album release? And he knows he seems big headed for thinking as such but is he so wrong? "What was your morning like? Starting from the moment you woke up." 

Furrowed brows press weight on his eyes as he sifts through the day, walking to his kitchen so that he could have something proper to eat, "Uh. . .I woke up, had a breakfast smoothie, um . . .went for a run, came back for my car and went to the grocery. Helped someone reach the Nutrigrain bars from the top shelf and let an old man have the last bag of baby carrots. Then I went home, had a nap, woke up, showered, got ready for the party and well -- yeah." 

Y/N appears confused, head tilting, and Harry finds it troubling to watch his own tattooed covered skin stretch across muscle when she pushes herself up onto the stool, his gangly limbs foreign to her as she moves awkwardly and Bambi-like, "How did you feel at the party? I felt kinda weird but I thought it was just everything building up -- and I've never just walked out of a party and onto a roof before, but something was like. . .lured me up there or summat. Until right now I thought the universe was throwing me a bone so I could meet you or something but now I feel like it might have been not an accident, y'know?" She bundles his hands into fists and rubs at his eyes harshly -- he could imagine that she's pressing hard enough to see dazzling white splotches and sparkles of stars and he wonders if it's the same pattern he sees or a pattern specific to her mind's interpretation.