Disclaimer: Not mine.

*facepalms* Apparently, I've jumped on the HP/Twilight crossovers bandwagon. It's all your fault, for creating such wonderful stories in this fandom. Now I'm addicted to them. How could you, people? :)

This would probably, might be, probably be an Edward/Harry slash (I could keep it het too, if you like). A bit of...touching and swearing. It's my take on the 'harry-disguises-himself-as-some-other-person' trope. Sori if der r eny grammatical aberrations and ms. speling.

Summary: Duel Death Eaters? Check. Defeat Dark Lords? Done that. Pose as Chief Swan's daughter in some backwater town and catch the eye of its resident, blood-sucking vampire? Sure, no prob-wait, WHAT?

Chapter 1: A Swipe of Lipstick

Dear Hermione, remember when you asked if my plans could get any stupider? Well, they just did. And I reckon that you're not gonna like it.

Bloody hell. This must be his Most Moronic Idea Yet.

Considering his fair share of Most Moronic Ideas, this topped the cake. It did not only top the cake, it sprinkled Canary Creams at its icinged-edges. He didn't even know what proverbial cake he was talking about, but it made him quite famished. Starving, actually. He could eat a whole horse and a blast-ended skrewt or two, even though both were not that appetizing.

It was even affecting his thought process, for he forgot to address his current dilemma.

Namely: his Most Moronic Idea Yet. He added the word 'yet' because he was sure that he could (and would) think of worse ideas still.

Harry surveyed himself in the mirror closely, relieved that he was finally able to mention his name in his mental rant. Too much use of the third person singular pronoun "he" was rather annoying.

He paused, wondering where that thought came from. Why should the use of the third person limited point of view bother him so much?

Oh, right. Because he was using it in his own thoughts.

"Merlin, Voldy must have addled my brains when he attacked me as a kid," he muttered, running his hand through his medium-length brown hair.

He blinked, watching the naked young girl in the mirror blink back.

"Not bad," he said to his reflection. "I'd probably 'tap that' if it isn't me."

The girl in the mirror grimaced, apparently offended by his crudeness.

"Suck it up." American slang was something he needed practice in; he was utterly rubbish at it. It was baffling, similar to how Americans driving on the wrong side of the road confuzzling the heck out of him.

The voice could use a little help, though. He needed to sound like an American born and bred, not a Brit who was barely out of puberty. More than that, he had to sound like a girl. An American girl. A teenage American girl.

His friends told him that that was a volatile mix. He forgot to ask if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

"Hello," he said. "How'd you do? I'm your average American teenage girl. Pleased to meet ya."

Now that was so much better.

The girl in the mirror - his reflection, he corrected himself - cocked an eyebrow in disagreement. He blew a raspberry at her.

Randomly, he wondered if he was pretty. He couldn't tell.

Almond-shaped brown eyes stared at him from a pale, heart-shaped face. His mouth was a touch too wide and unproportional to the rest of his features, but it could curl into such disarming smiles. The tone color of his skin freaked him out - it made him think of the Hogwarts ghosts. If he was a romantic he would say that he was chocolate-eyed and ivory-skinned but 'brown' and 'pasty' were apt descriptions for now. Brown hair fell pass his shoulders, and moved with every toss of his head. He wasn't accustomed to wearing his hair that long, and its weight felt odd.

The girl's frame was slender and somehow fragile, as if she'd tripped on bare air if given the chance. His new body didn't seem to be trained in any kind of sport or discipline. He felt annoyingly weak. She wasn't tall, but she was a good deal taller than Harry was – which vexed him a lot and made him curse his crappy childhood, Dursleys, and Aunt Marge's dogs (who always ate his share of food when Uncle Vernon's sister came to visit). But on the plus side, Harry was glad that his bust wasn't that large. He didn't think that he could walk straight without falling flat on his arse if his knockers were the size of watermelons - or the size of Aunt Marge when he 'blew her up' at the tender age of thirteen. Ah, that was one of his best Dursley memories, even though he was scared as hell and more focused on not pissing his pants than appreciating it at that time.

The lack of…dangling equipment was horribly disconcerting. No, it was downright horrifying. Was this what all girls have between their legs?

Morbid curiosity compelled him to… poke at it. But he retracted his hand quickly, uncomfortable with how sensitive he was. Merlin, he felt like a voyeur. He was a perverted, sexual, pedophilic deviant of the highest order. Sirius would have been so proud of him.

All in all, his female form was no supermodel, but he was no pushover either. He had the kind of face that would blend readily in any crowd. Nice, but not really that remarkable - which was exactly what he was gearing for.

The wizard picked up a bra and slipped it on. The mechanism of it seemed easy enough. He fumbled at the latch on his back, cursing himself for not asking the lady at the lingerie store if there was a bra that opened at the front. Still, he couldn't blame himself for not asking. The lady kept giggling all throughout their transaction. She must've thought that he had a weird hobby or something, for he came to the store as a boy.

The bra was a bit too small for him. The gartered edges dug in his skin uncomfortably. He should've come to the store in his female form. How was he to know that the blasted scraps of lace came in cups and sizes, for Morgana's sake?

He slipped on the panties next. The soft silk caressed his…crotch. He didn't like it. It made him feel…things, but wearing boxers or briefs would've been weird (especially if he happened to wear a skirt and there was a convenient wind nearby). He couldn't go commando either – he would never, ever consider that as an option.

He picked up the pair of jeans on his bed. No way in hell would he wear a skirt. The undergarments were torture enough, thank you very much. Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't a masochist.

From a pile of neatly-folded clothes, he selected a plain, sleeveless white blouse. He pulled it over his head, too lazy to undo the buttons and redo them all over again.

The boy-turned-girl stepped back and inspected his now-clothed new self. He didn't believe that he had committed any unspeakable fashion crime with his get-up. After all, it was just jeans and a blouse, right?

His face was still so pale, though. Should he try some make-up on?

Aside from the lingerie, he had stopped over a shop to buy some beauty products. They came in all sorts of shapes and sizes – some of which eerily looked like torture devices. He had grabbed only what he had deemed safe for his health to use. It wasn't a whole lot.

Attempts at make-up met a horrible end and a ruined blouse. Annoyed, he threw the things inside a handbag that seemed to have no other purpose than to look cute. He changed his top and decided to swipe on a tiny amount of lipstick. The wet feel and strawberry scent of it made him want to lick his lips, but he found out that it was not as delicious as it smelled.

He briefly contemplated the bottle of perfume on his boudoir. Fleur had slipped it in his pocket with a wink, a blush, and a whisper of "just 'een case, 'arry! 'Ooze 'eet well!" when they last saw each other. He was rather wary of it (did Fleur mean 'use' or 'ooze'? Was the perfume full of Veela voodoo?), but in the end decided that just a few sprays wouldn't hurt. It smelled nice, and reminded him of the flowers he used to tend in Aunt Petunia's garden. He couldn't read the label, but reckoned that it wasn't important. Who in the world read labels, anyway?

He combed his hair, straightened his blouse and looked at his reflection again.

An American teenage girl peered right back. Perfect.

Step one of his Most Moronic Idea Yet had been completed.

But he was still hungry.

"Sweetie, are you ready now?" a voice asked from downstairs, easily heard because his bedroom door was open.

"Coming, uh-Mom!" he yelled right back, wondering if it was normal behavior for mothers to call their teenaged daughters all sorts of nicknames as if they were still in nursery school. Aunt Petunia did it all the time with Dudley, calling him 'Dudley-poo' or 'Duddikins' well until his teenaged years. It mortified the heck out of Dudley, but provided Harry with countless hours of entertainment (and a few broken ribs when he couldn't hold in his laughter). He couldn't ask his own mother if she would have called him 'Harry-kins" too, because she was, well – gone.

They were all gone.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he ran his eye around the room. He hoped that he didn't forget anything – oh, the water bottle. He needed to keep it in hand all the time.

The 'girl' slung 'her' satchel on 'her' shoulder, barely noticing the nametag that proclaimed 'her' alleged identity and destination.

BELLA SWAN, FORKS, WASHINGTON.

Dear Hermione, I'd never given much thought to how I would die – though I'd had reason enough in the last few months – but even if I had, I would not have imagined it like this. Was that thought too morbid? Not for me - it rather sounded like a start of those clichéd romance novels you used to like. You know, those books with the brooding, mysterious heroes, the boring, plain heroines, the angsty 'you're much too good for a monster like me,' and the much-expected 'and they lived happily ever after?' Haha, please don't send a castration curse on your next letter. I'm fond of my man-bits and would prefer them up and running. I'm sure the ladies would be grateful for that, too.

Was that okay? My funny bone needs tickling and my writing skills are kinda rusty, so sorry for the awkwardness of anything. Thanks for reading and please review!