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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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