Started November 2001, finally completed April 2003

Summary: Snape tries to hang himself, Draco enters an alternate reality, and Harry Gets a Clue. Humor, SLASH, naughty language, and other Evil Things. Harry/Draco, Snape/James/Lucius.

The formating on this is strange. Sorry about that.

TUESDAY

At approximately 6:12 on a Tuesday evening, Draco Malfoy realised
he’d entered an alternate universe. Either that or the world had gone
completely, utterly mad.

“Um,” he said, “pardon me, but can you repeat that?”

Harry Potter adjusted his glasses. “I wanted to know if you would go
out with me Friday night. I mean,” he continued in a rush, “I
know you probably think this is a joke, but it–”

“Uh.” Draco stared at him. Harry closed his mouth and tried to grin at him
encouragingly. Another sign things were Terribly Wrong: aside from the fact
Real Harry Potter would never ask him, Draco Malfoy, a rich, pureblooded Slytherin
out on a date (even if he had a nice bum, which he knew he did), Real Harry
Potter would never look at him this stupidly. Draco pinched the bridge of his nose
and thought back to what he had eaten in the last twenty-four hours. “What
day is it?”

“Tuesday,” Harry quipped, fiddling with a loose seam on his robes. Draco could
tell he was nervous, probably thinking Draco was going to make fun of him. Which
he would have, had they been in the real world.

Draco rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Of course, this explains *everything*,”
he murmured. “I fucking hate Tuesdays.”

“Ah, what was that?”

Fixing him with a gray-eyed stare, Draco asked, “Mind if I try something?”
He didn’t bother waiting for a reply. “Harry Potter, you are bloody sexy.”

“I-I am?”

“No,” Draco said. “I was only kidding. But at least now I know I’ve entered
an alternate dimension.” A pause. Harry looked confused. After a few long
moments, Draco slowly said, “Fine, Fake Harry Potter, I will go out with you.”

“Oh,” Harry said, “swanky.”

“I mean, might as well enjoy the insanity while it lasts, right? Next I
might be imaging I’m being eaten alive by last week’s mystery meat.”

Harry’s smile faltered. “Malfoy?”

Draco sighed. “I jolly well expect you to at least take me someplace nice.
Although I *suppose* just the fact that I’ve agreed to go out with you means
I’ve lowered my standards.”

Harry opened his mouth to shoot back a snappy retort, but Draco cut him off.
“As much as I would *love* to stand here and trade insults, I have to go find
a way back to my reality. See you in class, Fake Potter.” With that said, he
spun on one heel, and, extending his arms, began stumbling his way down the
hall. A group of second-year Hufflepuffs stopped their path and stared at the
deranged blond. Draco waved his arms and said something that sounded, to Harry,
like, “We’re all doomed!” and they scattered.

“Maybe he hit his head or something,” Harry said. Then he grinned, feeling
a bit foolish. “I have a date! Wait a minute.” He frowned. “Did I just say
’swanky’?”

*****

In the dining hall that night, Ron Weasley poked at his serving of mystery
meat. “I fucking hate Tuesdays,” he muttered. A piece of his mystery veggie
stood and walked from his plate to Hermione’s, who looked at him like he had
purposefully sent the food to her.

“Ron!” Hermione scolded. “Language!”

Taking a seat next to Ron, Harry said, “What’s the matter, Ron? Moving food
again?” He squeezed in close; as usual, their side of the table was quite
crowded. Seamus and Dean were tossing rolls at each other from across the table.
Harry ducked, narrowly escaping a roll to the face.

“I *really* fucking hate Tuesdays,” Ron repeated.

“Ron!”

Reaching over Hermione’s thick potions text, Harry snagged a warm roll from the
nearest basket. “Hey, Ron, can I ask you something?”

Ron made a face as he viciously stabbed the meat with his fork. Harry
could’ve sworn it convulsed and died. “For the last time, I don’t think Snape
is naked under those robes. Although,” Ron added, thoughtfully, “no one has
ever checked. Well, and lived, that is.”

“Not that!” He really didn’t want to think about Snape starkers. “I just wanted
to know” — He started tapping the roll, watching bits flake off, finding that
much more interesting than the faces of his friends — “what it is wizards do
for dates.”

“Well,” Ron said distractedly, “I usually take girls on long, romantic walks
on the beach, and then we cuddle in front of a fire, sipping hot cocoa and
swapping stories from our childhood.”

“But, Ron, you don’t live near a beach.”

The redhead blinked. “What?”

Harry turned to Ginny. “Okay, what do people who *aren’t* losers do for
dates?”

“Ever been to a wizards’ film?” she asked. “It’s like being on crack.” Harry
and Ron stared. “Not like I would know.” She laughed nervously, face reddening.

Harry sighed and looked up the ceiling. He heard Ron screech, followed by a
“Aha! Got you, you little bugger!” and presumed another veggie had gotten up
and trotted across the table before his friend had impaled it with his fork.

“I have no idea where to take Malfoy on our date,” he murmured.

The corner of the Gryffindor table fell silent. Dean stopped, missing the
roll, and it bounced off his forehead. Harry coughed. He had forgotten about
that part.

“Excuse me,” Ron said. “I think my ears are bleeding.”

“So Potter ‘ere plays for the other team,” a first-year announced cheerfully,
bopping a walking veggie with a spoon. Harry had no idea what he was talking
about. “How cute.”

“I’m not cute, I’m sexy.” He tore off his glasses and posed. “I’m the Boy Who
Lived. *Bloody* sexy.”

“Of course you are,” Hermione soothed. “But I don’t think there is much for
older students to do on dates. Why don’t you and Malfoy just stand on the roof
and take turns spitting over the edge?”

“But Ron and I already do that,” he protested. Besides, Malfoy probably didn’t
spit. Much too beastly.

“Really, Harry,” Ron said. “Malfoy? This isn’t some kinky thing, is it?
Does pain turn you on?”

“Just be glad I don’t go for redheads, Ron. I know where you sleep.”

Across the room, Draco was alternating between studying his well-manicured
nails and watching his peers slaughter mystery meat. “Fake Potter
had better be taking me someplace nice,” he drawled, bored. “I’ll see to it
that he does. After all, I am the dominating one.” He paused, resisting the
urge to cackle madly. “I’m so the boy. Although I *am* the prettier of the
two…”

Beside him, Crabbe blinked, dropping the veggie he was poking at with his
butter knife. “Uh.”

“Lovely evening we’re having,” Goyle said, lamely.

Draco looked up. “Yes,” he said. “Quite.”

*****

WEDNESDAY

“Malfoy,” Snape said, slowly, clearly annoyed. He paused for dramatic effect.
“Why don’t you have your homework?”

“Well, you see, Fake Professor Snape,” Draco calmly said from his seat in the
front of the class, “I’ve gone completely loony.”

There was a brief silence, this time caused by confusion rather than
dramatics. “I suppose that’s a good enough excuse.”

Ron leaned over to Harry and whispered, “Remind me to try that one sometime
next week.”

As soon as Snape’s back was turned, something light hit Harry in the head. He
looked down and saw a folded piece of parchment next to his foot. Making sure Snape
wasn’t looking, he bent, snatched it up, and unfolded it quickly. In sloppy scrawl
was written, ‘Potter: If Malfoy’s still off his rocker by Fri. I know of a nice
Ravenclaw bloke who thinks you’re sexy. Paulie.’ Harry looked in the back of the
room. The note-writer waggled his eyebrows at him. Gulping, Harry spun back around
and pretended to pay attention to what Snape was writing on the blackboard.

“What’s wrong?” Ron whispered.

“I told you I was bloody sexy,” Harry hissed. “Now some Ravenclaw chap wants
to jump my bones.”

Ron snickered. “Is he blond?”

“Ron!”

The girl in front of him leaned back and tossed another parchment onto his
desk. He nearly groaned, until he saw ‘Fake Harry Potter’ in Malfoy’s neat print
on the outside of the paper. He glanced at Draco. The pale boy wasn’t even turned
in his direction. Making sure Snape still wasn’t looking at him, he opened it
and began reading. ‘Fake Potter: Rumor has it we’ve been having torrid affair
behind peers’ backs. V. funny, if not revolting. Also says you don’t know where
to take me Fri. & no one thinks you’re sexy, you freak. No one. Draco Malfoy.’
The ‘y’ had a little curl to it.

“What a poof,” Harry muttered. “Should’ve realised he was gay sooner.”

He scribbled back, ‘Everything taken care of. And if not sexy, then why u
dating? H. Potter.’

He had the girl in front of him pass it back. Several moments later, a note
flew towards his head. With his Seeker skills he caught it before he could
could suffer from a massive paper cut.

‘Fake Potter: Might as well have fun w/ insanity. When return to
the real world will kick your skinny arse. Draco Malfoy. PS. Even more
fun: Treat me right Fri. & you might get lucky.’

“He’s off his trolly,” Ron whispered. “And you want to *shag* him? That’s
disgusting! You don’t know where he’s been!”

“Ron! These are private!”

“Well, they’re more interesting than Snape.” He pointed to his “notes,” which
consisted of various sketches of a stick figure Snape in women’s clothing, and
a stick figure Malfoy (he assumed it was Malfoy; who else would Ron draw
short and with devil horns?) dying in various, painful ways.

Harry wrote back, ‘Be prepared to be de-flowered,’ and tossed it at the side of
Draco’s head. It landed on Draco’s desk.

“Potter!” Snape hissed. His black eyes were cold. “Stop trying to distract your
hard-working classmates. You will stay after class.”

“Really, Fake Potter,” Draco crooned, “I’m trying to work.”

“Quiet, Malfoy,” Snape said. “Crazy people should be seen and not heard.”

The thin face seemed to twitch. Smirking, Harry dipped his quill in ink and
began copying what was on the board. “What is Snape talking about?” he whispered
to Ron.

“Hell if I know,” Ron muttered. He added a little flower to stick figure Snape’s
hat. “Just smile and nod. You think he would notice if I made some coloured ink?
I need to colour his tea dress.”

Thankfully, for both Harry and Ron (“Snape’s going catch you, and I’m going
to laugh when he does, Ron Weasley,” Hermione declared), the period was
soon over. Snape retired to his desk, and students flourished about, gathering
their things and chatting. That Ravenclaw lad winked at Harry on his way
out. Harry groaned.

Draco clutched at his hair and wailed, “There’s a ringing in my head!”

“That’s the bell, you twit,” Ron grunted, collecting his books and folding
his drawings carefully. “See you later, Harry.”

As the students filed out, Harry went and stood beside Snape’s desk. Snape
ignored him as he straightened up his scrolls and books. Harry cleared his
throat. No response.

“Professor Snape?” he asked. Snape continued to ignore him, which could
only mean one thing: Snape had something very, very bad planned for him.
Quickly, he said the first thing that came to mind. “Professor, you like
guys, don’t you?”

Snape sputtered and dropped his quill. “*Who* *told* *you*– I mean,” he said,
leaning forward and glaring at young Harry, “what are you on about, Potter?”

“A little bird told me?” Snape made a face that told Harry Gryffindor was about
to get a heap of points deducted. “I once saw you and Professor Lupin,” he
replied, resigned. “He said, ‘I know you want me,’ and you agreed. And then
he was slammed up against the wall, and, uh, yeah.”

Snape fixed him with another death glare. “I don’t remember seeing you there,”
he said, menacingly.

Harry coughed. “Anyway, I was wondering if you know of a place I could take
someone on a date?”

Snape looked at him thoughtfully. “Does this have something to do with you
throwing things at Malfoy’s head?”

“Er.”

“And I thought he had taste,” Snape said, looking disgusted. “Like father, like
son, I suppose.”

“Are you talking about my father or Malfoy’s?” Harry asked.

“Both. Neither. I don’t know.” He waved a vague hand. “Get lost, I suddenly
feel ill. You’ll serve detention another time.”

As Harry turned to leave, Snape muttered, “James was such a slut.”

Harry stopped. “What?” he asked, not believing his ears.

A pause. “Ouch, my butt?”

He wasn’t entirely convinced. As he walked out, he continued to throw
dodgy glances over his shoulder, but Snape simply stood still at his
desk, staring at the wall with a far-away look on his face.

*****

Draco crossed one slender ankle over his knee, trying to get comfortable in
the hard seat of the waiting room. The chair squeaked loudly when he moved.
“Really, you make one comment about being in an alternate reality, and they
send you off to the councilor,” he muttered.

The door slammed open with a loud *bang* and Professor Snape launched himself
into the waiting room. His black hair was disheveled, and he seemed to be breathing
hard. “Doctor,” he called, ignoring Draco, “I’m having the flashbacks again!”

Another door, this time on the other side of the room, labeled ‘Doctor
Pitters,’ opened. Snape hurried in. It closed shut behind him, nearly catching
the ends of his robes.

Raising his eyebrows, Draco protested, “Hey, wait, I was here first!” No
response. “I’m crazier than he is! And I’m missing Divinations!” Silence.
“Bloody hell,” he grumbled.

He wasn’t sure how, but this *had* to be Fake Potter’s fault. Everything
in his world was Potter’s fault, and so, by default, everything in this
world had to be caused by Fake Potter. He wasn’t even sure why he had
agreed to go out with the do-gooder in the first place. Maybe he was just
bored.

“Yes,” he said, confidently, “I’m just terribly, terribly bored. And I
*suppose*, if one was to be completely honest with oneself, Fake Potter
looked almost cute when he was nervous. If one likes fidgety brunettes, that
is.” He thought back to Harry’s goofy grin and frowned. “Bollocks, I’ve
gone completely mad.”

*****

“Crikey Moses, young Malfoy,” Doctor Pitters said, “you’re not in an
alternate universe, you just have hormones.” A protesting Draco was
escorted out of the room.

“But, Doctor, *odd* things are happening–”

“I bet they are,” she agreed, smirking. “Listen, Mr. Malfoy, why don’t you
go run a few laps, or take a cold shower, or something?”

The door slammed shut in his face.

Draco stood still for a moment, unsure of what to do. Finally, he said, “I
am definitely going to kick Real Potter’s arse when I return to the real
world.”

*****

CHAPTER TWO

THURSDAY

Breakfast was a loud affair for the Gryffindor house. Some were morning folks,
and those who were loved to annoy their classmates who weren’t completely
awake until they had eaten something. Currently, Dean was attaching bacon
mustache and eyebrows to Neville, who had fallen asleep in his porridge,
and Ginny was attempting to keep a seventh-year from putting some sort of
potion in Neville’s juice. Ron cheered them on. Rolling her eyes, Hermione
blocked her view of them with a book.

Harry fiddled with his fork. “If I take Malfoy someplace bad, I’ll
be mocked until the end of my days.”

Ron stopped his goading and muttered something that sounded like, “That’ll
happen *any*way.”

“But” — He pointed the fork at Ron, who quickly swallowed his scrambled
eggs — “if I take him someplace nice, chances are he’ll be civil, at least
for a bit, and, if we both enjoy ourselves, we might go out again.”

“And have a bang.” Ron raised an eyebrow. Hermione choked on her pumpkin
juice. “Don’t forget that part.”

“Therefore,” Harry announced, “my entire future relationship between Malfoy
and myself depends on the planning and location of this date.”

“You’re just as loony as he is,” Ron said.

The drink exploded in a ball of glitter and streamers. Neville awoke and
began screaming, not even noticing the bacon details to his face. Laughter
bubbled around their and the parallel Ravenclaw tables. Harry didn’t notice;
he was too busy glancing at the Slytherin table. Draco caught his eye
and sneered, but it didn’t look quite so frightening, since his white-blond
hair was sticking up at odd angles.

On the other side of the room, Draco realised Fake Crabbe and Fake Goyle
were much more annoying than the real ones. They slurped down their
breakfast and made obscene gestures at the other tables. Across from
him sat Fake Pansy– and, well, Pansy of any dimension was ridiculously stupid.
Meanwhile, Fake Potter was staring at him, and it was beginning to get creepy.
He made a face.

Pansy pointed at his head and cackled. “Draco, your hair is sticking up funny.”

With one hand, he reached up and felt his hair. Indeed, it was out of place.
He had spent much of the night looking up spells to return to his reality (without
much success), and he didn’t even notice this when he had gotten up. “Thank you,
Pansy,” he murmured, trying to smooth his hair down.

She leaned closer. “Rumour has it you’re seeing someone. Does Draco have a
girlfriend?” she asked, in a singsong tone.

“No, Pansy dear.” He glared at Fake Potter, who was busy laughing at something
with Weasley. “He won’t be my girlfriend until after we’ve shagged.”

She looked confused. “W-what?”

He smirked and gracefully took a warm muffin from a basket. Across the room,
Harry looked at him again, and this time, instead of feeling creeped out,
Draco laughed. Pansy scooted away.

*****

Harry was certain that if Voldemort didn’t kill him, History of Magic would.
Professor Bins was the most boring teacher Harry had ever had. As Bins
droned on about the details of some sort of peace treaty — Harry wasn’t
listening, and he doubted anyone in the class other than Hermione could
tell him what was going on –, Ron’s eyes were rolling in the back of his
head. Harry was periodically pinching himself to remain awake, although
that tactic was failing.

Ron lazily scribbled something onto his parchment.

“Really, Ron,” hissed Harry, “I think Bins would look horrid in a tea dress.”

Ron made gagging motions. “Trying to give me nightmares?” He pointed to what
he had written: ‘Your boyfriend’s not so cute now,’ and, beside that, a sketch
of a stick figure with mismatched eyes and lines sticking straight out of its
small head.

Harry risked a look at Draco, who sat in the back right corner of the room. The
blond’s normally sharp eyes were unfocused, his mouth hanging open. Clumps of hair
were still out of place. Harry snickered.

“Not as bad as Seamus though, eh?” Ron said, nodding to the left. Seamus was completely
asleep, sitting up straight, his head supported by his hands, and Dean was busy
drawing on his face. His right cheek currently sported a sign that said, ‘I *heart*
Professor Snape,’ and Dean was etching, ‘Draco Malfoy: The Other White Meat,’ on
his left.

“I still haven’t figured out where to take Malfoy on our date,” Harry said softly.

“Horror.”

Harry rested his chin in his hand, watching Dean color red ink into the heart on
Seamus’ cheek. “We could… No, he burns too easily. Or maybe… No, that might hurt.”

Ron gave him an odd look. “I don’t want to know.” He rocked back in his chair,
wrinkling his freckled nose. “Why don’t you just try to think like Malfoy? As
terribly disturbing as that is, it would give you a better idea of what the
miserable git would find entertaining.”

“Ron, you’re brilliant.” Harry grinned.

*****

“I think,” Draco said slowly, “that my mind is awake, but my body is
asleep.”

While Harry was making his plans, Draco was having a few problems of his
own. Other than the attempt to stay awake, which was becoming a much harder
task as the minutes ticked by like hours, he couldn’t help but go over the
last two days in his mind.

Taking out an expensive self-refilling red-ink quill, Draco scrawled a list onto
the parchment he should have been using for note taking:

‘Odd Occurrences Since Being Thrust Into An Alternate Dimension:
‘1) Potter asked me out.
‘2) I said yes.
‘3) Snape made fun of me.
‘4) No one believes me and finds me to be mad.’

He stared at the list. Finally, he circled and underlined number 1.

On his left, Blaise startled at the sound of writing. Draco glanced at him. He had
been staring blankly at Professor Bins for the entire period, and this was the first
time Draco had seen him blink in nearly an hour. “I wish I was dead,” Blaise murmured.

“Of course,” said Draco, not really listening. “Really, do you mind? I can’t
be arsed now.” Blaise lapsed back into mindless silence.

Draco wrote, ‘Reasons For My Being to be Hurled Into Said Dimension:
‘A) Potter’s sick idea of a joke, because he obviously wants my
boo-tay.’

He stared at that for a bit, then added to the Odd Things list, ‘5) I have
made several responses to stimuli with un-Draco commentary, i.e. the supposed
intention to shag Potter, and the *extraordinary* use of the word booty.’

Licking the top of his quill, he continued.

‘B) I ate something I should not have.
‘C) Father — being the evil’ — He quickly scratched that word out — ‘*brilliant*
wizard he is — has thrust me into an alternate dimension so as to seduce Potter and
learn his ways. When I return to the real world I will use this knowledge to defeat
and/or torture Potter for the rest of his wretched life, or until I get bored and
move on. Life will be joyous.’

Of course. It made perfect sense, now that he thought about it. He was trapped
in a world where his father was God. He wondered if his mother knew about this.
“Father,” he whispered, “you sneaky bastard.”

Just then, a loud “Aha! I’ve *got* it!” came from the middle of the room. Draco
raised his head. Harry was grinning madly and was waving his arms in the air, and
Ron was trying to keep him down. Draco’s eyes narrowed. Couldn’t Harry go one
class without trying to attract attention?

Bins stopped his speech. “*Mister* Potter, I am trying to teach a class–”

“Yes, yes,” Harry said. “Very sorry.” He was still grinning.

Blaise snorted. “Potter’s daft.” Fixing Draco with an ugly stare, he demanded,
“Is it true what they say about you? That you’re *dating* him?”

“Yes,” Draco drawled, “but don’t worry, it’s all a plot concocted by my
father of my reality to gain secret knowledge of the Fake Potter and to use
this to defeat the Real Potter once and for all.”

Silence from Blaise. Draco could hear someone in the back of the room snoring.

“It’s rather clever,” he added.

“Uh-huh,” Blaise said. “But, Draco, how is dating him suppose to give you
information?”

Draco considered it. Aside from sleeping with Potter, he really didn’t know.
And how was shagging him suppose to guarantee information? Potter might
just be the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am type.

“I’m sure my father knows,” Draco replied confidently, pulling out a fresh
scroll.

*****

The Potions room was silent except for the scrape of quills on parchment as
the students finished their pop quizzes. (“Slimy git,” Ron had exclaimed.
“I didn’t have a chance to cram!” “You shouldn’t need to study, Ron,”
Hermione had said, “this is stuff you should have *known* by now.” “Bugger off,
Hermione.”) Snape stared at Draco, who pretended he didn’t notice. Draco’s
handwriting was very small and neat, and his free hand was folded carefully
in his lap.

Snape cringed. “So gay,” he sighed, shaking his head. “So very, very gay.”
Without looking up from his quiz, Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Reminds me of myself
when I was his age.” Draco’s eyebrows shot up. He raised his head in time to see
Snape send Harry a nasty glare. “Five points from Slytherin for having poor
taste,” he announced.

Several Slytherins groaned. At least Harry had the decency to look offended.
Weasley, sitting with Hermione, behind Harry, appeared as if he trying not to laugh.
Some threw angry looks at Draco, but he doubted they completely understood what
they were being punished for.

“Ten points from Gryffindor for defiling Slytherin,” Snape added.

Someone threw a large root at Harry’s head. Harry fell out of his chair.
No one made the move to help him. Draco probably should have felt bad, but
he didn’t.

“Who threw that?” Snape demanded, black eyes searching.

Ron’s hand slowly raised. Many Gryffindors goggled at him.

“Ron!” Hermione shrieked.

Strangely, Snape looked impressed. “Five points to Gryffindor for having good
aim.”

“I think I have a concussion,” Harry moaned. He climbed back into his seat,
clutching his head. Draco sniggered.

“Finish your quiz,” Snape said.

*****

FRIDAY

A dark cloud poured rain over the Malfoy estate. A tall, slender blond woman
stood at one of the windows, watching the land flooding, and the frantic running
of the terrified house-elves who were “accidently” left outside.

“Such a nice day,” Narcissa Malfoy said. She closed the curtains and took a
seat on the plush, dragon-hide couch in Lucius’ office.

“Shut it,” grumbled Lucius from his large, mahogany desk. The only thing
Narcissa could see of him was the top of his white-blond head, hidden behind
stacks of paperwork. “If I have to fill out *one* more survey form for
Voldemort… ‘When was the last time you killed a Muggle, and how did you do
it?’ I ran over that one the other day…”

“He lived, dear,” she said.

“Bollocks. I’ll just make something up, then.” She could hear sounds of
writing. “Oh, look what an owl brought us.”

He pushed several rows of paperwork aside and waved a scroll at Narcissa.
“A letter from Draco. ‘Dear Fake Father,’” Lucius Malfoy read aloud. One slender,
pale eyebrow rose at the word “fake.” Narcissa’s smile wavered. “‘All is well at
Hogwarts,’” he went on. “‘I continue to do well in my classes, and the Gryffindor
house remains terrorized at all possible times.’”

“How lovely,” Narcissa murmured. She smoothed her robes with one hand.

“‘However, It has come to my attention that I have recently entered an alternate
reality. I am not *your* Draco; I am a Draco sent by the real you. Though it
seems I am unsure of your’ — Why is the word ‘evil’ scribbled out? — ‘plan.
Am I to torture Harry Potter, or simply sleep with him? Give mum a kiss for me.
Sincerely, The Real Draco Malfoy.’”

Lucius dropped the letter. He and Narcissa stared at each other. Horrified
screams soon filled the entire Malfoy mansion.

*****

They pulled Draco out of his Arithmacy class right before lunch. He didn’t
really mind; he already knew how to do today’s lesson. However, it wasn’t
until he saw Professor Snape standing impatiently outside Dumbledore’s office
that he understood exactly why he was there.

Snape nodded at him. “Your father’s inside. He said it was some sort of
emergency.”

“Fake Father,” he called, entering the office with an extra bounce in
his step.

He came face-to-face with the letter he had sent home, only slightly more
wrinkled, and there were a few splotches that may have been tears. Lucius’
hand was holding the letter, white-knuckled and trembling with rage.

“What,” Lucius breathed, pulling the letter away from Draco’s face, “is
*this*?”

“Oh, that,” Draco said. “Didn’t I explain it already? I’ve been sent from
the real world to–”

“Rubbish,” his father growled. His pointed face was tight with anger. Snape
slinked into the office and stood beside Dumbledore’s desk. The headmaster was
watching the scene, amused. “Why would I *ever* want you to sleep with
James Potter’s deplorable son?”

“To gain information, of course,” Draco replied. “Besides, I’m not your
son; I’m the son of the you in my reality. *You* don’t want me to have sex
with Fake Potter, but *my* father does.”

Lucius shook his head. “You’re an idiot, Draco. Why, if I wasn’t sleeping
with your teachers…”

“Which ones?” Draco demanded.

“All of them.”

Draco turned to Snape, who was looking everywhere but him. Dumbledore
raised his eyebrows. The figures of the old headmasters in the paintings on
the walls seemed more interested in the conversation now.

“Severus!” Lucius bellowed. “Slap some sense into the boy. I have weak
joints.”

“I think that’s illegal,” Snape said.

“No one has to know. We’re the only ones in here.”

Dumbledore raised his hand. “Um, excuse me–”

“Pansy.”

“Just because I don’t want to get arrested–” Snape started, a foul expression
crossing his face.

“Wimp. Nancy boy.”

“Do you know what they would *do* to me in prison?”

“Hello, child in the room,” Draco announced, pulling his lists out of his bag.
Lucius glared at Snape, who edged closer to Dumbledore. “I have evidence as
to how I know I’m not in my reality,” Draco continued. He handed the scrolls to
his father.

Snape hovered over Lucius’ shoulder. Lucius looked at him. “You made fun of
Draco?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

“No,” said the teacher. “I simply called him crazy, which he clearly is.”

“As you can see,” Draco said, “I truly am in an alternate reality, and
there is a very good reason why that is.”

“Draco,” Lucius asked, clearly annoyed by this turn of events, “if you really
*are* in an alternate universe, then where is the Draco of this one?”

“Blow me,” Draco exclaimed. “Fake Draco better not touch my things!”

*****

At nearly 6:00 pm, Harry managed to find Draco lurking near the girl’s
washroom, clutching something small and dark, which Harry assumed was a
dungbomb. Thankfully, he was still wearing his school robes; Harry hadn’t
changed clothing either, and he would have felt like an even bigger idiot
if Draco was dressed up.

“Malfoy,” he called.

Draco turned. “Fake Potter.” He narrowed his eyes and dropped the unused
dungbomb into his pocket.

“Didn’t you get in enough trouble for doing that last term?” Harry asked.

“I realised that since I entered this dimension, I’ve been slacking off,” Draco
said. He pulled out the dungbomb and a lighter, lit the tip, and tossed it
through the open door. “So I’m making up for lost time. Besides, one can only hope
the Fake Draco is continuing my duties in the real world.”

There was a loud shriek, and a cloud of pink smoke began airing from the
washroom.

Draco smirked. “Are we going, then?”

*****

“What exactly are we doing tonight?” Draco asked, crossing his arms over his
chest. He and Harry stood near the statue that opened the secret passage to
Hogsmead. Harry kept glancing around the hall, trying to make sure no one was
near. He missed his Marauder’s Map.

“First,” he said, certain they were alone, “we’re going cow tipping.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Tipping cows, Fake Potter? You’re going to waste my
money on cows?”

“No, no. Cow tipping is…” He stopped and sighed. “Maybe we should start at
the beginning. Cows are–”

“I know what cows are,” said Draco, dryly.

“Right. So. When cows sleep, they sleep standing up. In cow tipping, you poke
the cows, and they fall over onto their side.”

There was a long silence, and all Draco did was stare at him as if he had grown
a second head. Harry suddenly felt nervous; this wasn’t going the way he planned.

Finally, Draco said, “Our date consists of Muggle animal cruelty?”

“Um.”

“Fake Harry Potter, I think I love you.”

*****

The library was nearly empty on Friday nights, giving Hermione the perfect
opportunity to study. She couldn’t stand it when people chatted while she
was trying to read. However, tonight she had Ron with her, who was still
scowling over the fact Harry was with out with Malfoy, instead of spending time
with what Ron called, “sane, decent folk.” She wanted to kill him, if only
to shut him up.

“I think Harry’s gone mad,” Ron muttered, for the fourth time in the last
half hour.

Hermione gritted her teeth. “‘Add one goat liver, one newt tail…’”

“A loon. Really, *Malfoy*? I’d rather he date Neville.”

Inspiration struck her: she knew how to get Ron to be quiet. “Hey, Ron?”
she asked, trying to sound sweet, and failing miserably, “I’ll tell you a
secret if you promise not to talk for the next hour.”

He glowered. “Yeah?”

“Did you know there’s pornography in the Restricted Section?”

His jaw dropped. “No! Really? No wonder Snape’s in there all the time.”

They both shuddered. Just then, the door to the Restricted Section opened,
and Dumbledore carefully stepped out, a large book in his hands. “Hello,
Miss Granger, Mister Weasley,” he said, cheerfully.

Hermione dropped her book. Ron looked at him, a look of horror crossing
his face.

“I was just brushing up on my read of…” The headmaster looked at the
cover of the book. “Erm, leather. Yes. I’m thinking of buying some new,
ah, leather boots.”

The both nodded dully.

“Carry on, then.” He closed the Restricted Section’s door and hurried off.

“Going to be sick, definitely going to be sick,” Ron muttered, as soon
as Dumbledore was out of sight.

Hermione tried to think of something — anything — to get her mind off porn
and Dumbledore. Ron was still looking green. “I wonder what Harry’s doing right
now?” she asked.

Ron fell out of his chair.

*****

“Fake Potter, you’re an idiot.”

“Shut it. Help get this bloody cow off me.”

“Not until I get a picture.”

*flash*

“I hate you.”

“I know. Lovely, isn’t it?”

*****

CHAPTER THREE

SATURDAY

The halls were nearly silent as Harry limped his way to breakfast Saturday
morning. He had woken up late and was in risk of missing breakfast. His muscles
were still sore from that damn cow landing on him. That would be the last time
he considered cows to be defenseless creatures. It would also be the last time
he suggested he and Draco do anything related to the outdoors, considering *he*
had done the actual cow-tipping while Draco had stood off to the side and tittered
madly.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the famous Potter,” a familiar voice sneered. Harry
turned to see Snape leaning against a tapestry, looking sour. His black hair
hung greasily over his eyes. He looked particularly vicious this morning.

Gritting his teeth, Harry said, “Good morning, Professor. If you don’t mind,
I was just on my way to breakfast.”

“Actually, I do mind,” Snape snapped. He smiled in a way that made Harry
nervous. “You look awfully chuffed. Did you have fun on your little date?”

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business, Professor,” said Harry, coolly.

“I don’t know why you even bother,” Snape continued, ignoring Harry’s comment.
His eyes were focused on something far away, leaving Harry with the impression
Snape was remembering an event from long ago. “You’re only going to bonk him and
move on, just like your father.”

Maybe it was that a muscle in his leg was convulsing, or maybe it was that Snape
had mocked James so often in the past, or maybe it was the fact that
Draco currently had an embarrassing picture of Harry trapped under a cow, but
something in Harry snapped. “Listen, Professor,” he said, “I have this nice
image of my father in my head where he only slept with one person — my mother –
and it was only once, to produce me. I’d like to keep that delusion, thank you very
much.”

Snape’s face clouded. But before he had the chance to deduct Gryffindor points,
Harry spun on his heel and marched to the dining hall’s great doors.

“James Potter was a whore,” he heard Snape shout after him. “A WHORE!”

Harry slammed the doors shut, shaking with anger. The *bang* reverberated through
the dining hall. Many students were already staring, and, as he crossed the hall,
loud whispers followed him. He could hear his and Draco’s names; Draco was
surrounded by his fellow Slytherins, and seemed to be having a long, deep
discussion, occasionally pointing at the Gryffindor table. His anger faded
into anxiety, but he certainly wouldn’t have felt so nervous if it wasn’t for
the smirk on Draco’s pointed face.

Sliding into his usual seat beside Ron, Harry said, “Ron, you won’t believe
what Snape–”

“That’s all fine and good,” Ron said, waving his hand. “But that’s not
what your public wants to hear.” Harry sent him a Look. He noticed his
housemates were moving in closer and closer. Hermione even put her tome
down to listen. “So, you copped off?”

Harry opened his mouth to reply with a “No,” but in swarmed his classmates.

“What about you and Malfoy now?” Seamus asked. “Do you lurve him? Are you
going to walk together and hold hands, and snog between periods, and tell
each other how much you’ll miss each other for the two whole hours you’re
apart during classes?”

Dean cut in, “That prat’s not going to sit with us, is he?” A horrified look
crossed his face. “Harry, you aren’t going to sit at the Slytherin table?”

“Listen!” Harry shouted. “No, I didn’t sleep with him. And, *no*, one date
does not mean we’re going to get all lovey-dovey, it simply means we’re
going to be decent around each other for a bit.” He relaxed, seeing their
surprised faces, and grinned. “It takes more than one date for Harry Potter
and Draco Malfoy to stop pissing around each other.”

The dinning hall went silent, and Harry could feel everyone’s eyes on him.
His face heated. A series of loud laughs erupted from the Slytherin table;
Draco was waving what looked like a photo. A photo with Harry trapped
under a cow.

“On second thought,” Harry said, “forget decency, I am going to strangle
him, slowly and painfully.”

Chattering filled the room again, taking the attention off of him. Many
Gryffindors moved back to their original seats and began discussing other
topics.

“If it makes you feel any better, I watched Dumbledore check out porn,”
Ron grunted.

“Actually, it does,” Harry admitted.

He started to relax as he realised he was well out of the spotlight. Down the
table, he could hear conversations ranging from the latest Quiddich match to
the Potions exam. But as soon as he started to pick up conversation with his
friends, the hall doors creaked open, and a human-shaped shadow passed over his
corner of the table. Neville gulped; Ron cringed.

“Fifty points from Gryffindor,” Professor Snape hissed, “because Potter is
happy.”

His housemates groaned and began pelting him with their breakfast, all except
Ron, who stood to block the oncoming food.

“Harry, save yourself!” Ron cried.

“Ron,” he exclaimed, “duck!”

Harry watched in horror as his friend spasmed as he was pounded again and again
by an assortment of donuts, fruit, and scones. Porridge and milk dripped from his
red hair. It was like something out of a Muggle war film.

A cream danish splattered against Harry’s face, blinding him. Yelping, Harry tried
to hide under the table. Soon enough, however, the attack stopped, as the Gryffindors
ran out of food. Ron moaned and fell over. He was barely recognizable under the
thick coating of porridge and drinks, which Hermione was trying to blot with a
handkerchief.

Harry poked his head out from under the table. He heard Snape snigger. “Twenty
points to Gryffindor for collectively attacking Potter.”

Harry angrily pulled off his glasses and wiped them as clean as he could. He felt
sticky. “Some friends you are,” he spat. “I shudder to think what you would do if
he offered extra credit.” Seamus smacked him in the forehead with a scone. “Arg.”

“Harry,” Ron whispered, “is there much blood?”

“Just a bit,” Harry replied.

*****

MONDAY

“Since the damage is done and you’ve completely shamed the family name,
I suppose I’m off,” said Lucius Malfoy.

“Right,” Draco said, picking at a loose seam on his robes. He probably
wouldn’t have felt so terrible if Fake Lucius didn’t look so much like,
well, Lucius. At least Fake Potter had the decency to act like an even
bigger twit than the Real Potter. But despite the rest of the world’s
ability to behave as if they were a part of a different universe, all
while frantically denying the claim, Fake Lucius was exactly like the
Lucius of his dimension, from the way he parted his hair to the way he
always smelled of whiskey. Draco wondered if the fake Lucius had
given his son an evil plot to accomplish as well. Probably not, since he
didn’t understand Draco’s father’s brilliant plan.

“Poor Fake Draco,” Draco murmured. “His father isn’t as clever as mine.”

Lucius shifted his small suitcase in his hands, still glaring down at
his son. “Look at me when I speak to you. Potter, Draco? *Potter*? Isn’t
he part Muggle-born? And a Gryffindor, a *brunette* Gryffindor. He doesn’t
even have twenty-twenty vision! Even Severus would make–”

“Ugh, no.” Draco paled. “No, Fake Father, that would be nasty. I have a
strong suspicion the man doesn’t bathe on a regular basis.”

“I have no problem with you dating other boys,” Lucius continued, completely
disregarding Draco’s comment. “God knows I’ve had quite a few lads in my
day–”

“Fake Father, you’re going to make my cry,” Draco wailed. He felt dirty,
so dirty.

“Now you sound like your mother,” Lucius snapped. There was a brief silence
as Lucius angrily glanced him over. Draco recognized that look. It was the
same one he had used when Draco had accidentally turned a house-elf into a
butterfly. Right before he had torn off the butterfly’s wings. “Have you at
least gotten laid yet?”

“No,” Draco admitted. He raised his chin defiantly, resisting the urge to
take a step back.

“Then you’re no son of mine!” With a flourish of his cape, Lucius marched
out the Hogwarts’ gates.

“Bollocks,” Draco said.

Lucius disappeared into the fog. Seconds later, footfalls sounded on the stone
stairs behind him. Draco turned, narrowing his eyes at the intruder. Harry stood
a few steps above, looking foolish.

“Don’t you have a life?” Draco asked. “Must you be *everywhere*? I’m beginning
to believe you have an obsession.”

“This from the boy who’s been stalking me for six years,” Harry said
sarcastically. Draco’s lip curled spitefully, and Harry’s face turned
serious. “Sorry for shaming your family and all that. Wasn’t my intention.”

He sneered. How dare Harry take responsibility for his family? That was so
like him. “Perfect Fake Potter controls me now, eh? Apologising for my
family, eh?” he said scornfully. “It’s all the same to me. It’s not *my* life.
I won’t have to deal with it when I return to my dimension.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at him from behind those ridiculous glasses. “Let’s
say that, hypothetically, this is an alternate reality. You don’t feel guilty
for possibly ruining the life of your other self?”

“Guilty?” Draco repeated, slowly. He’d never heard that word applied to himself
before.

“You know, feeling responsible for something? Like did something bad?” Draco
opened his mouth, but Harry cut him off. “And *not* feeling good about it?”

“Not feeling good about doing something bad?” Draco asked, astonished. “Fake
Potter, that isn’t funny.”

Harry looked exasperated. “Malfoy, you’re such a– such a–”

“A–” Draco began to offer.

“If you say, ‘devilishly handsome young man, so irresistible you want to
ravish him immediately,’ I will hurt you very, very badly.”

Draco leered. “Sounds like you’re been thinking about that for a while. Let’s
have sex, Fake Potter.”

Harry slapped him. Draco shrieked, clutching his stinging cheek. Potter
swore and shook his hand, and told him, “Sorry, but I had to take desperate
measures.”

“Thank you,” Draco said. “I reckon I was repressing that one.” He touched his
cheek, which felt like it was beginning to swell. “However, no-one attacks me
and gets away with it, no matter how justified the attack may be.” He pushed
his sleeves up and took a step forward, giving the other teen the most threatening
look he could muster. “Especially not some scrawny git who can’t even push over
a cow properly. I’m going to have to kick your arse, Fake Potter.”

“Screw you, Malfoy,” Harry snapped, temper flaring.

“Sorry, my schedule’s full for the day,” he said sarcastically.

Harry groaned. “I should have phrased that differently. Clear off, Malfoy.”

“No-one’s here to protect you this time,” Draco sneered. “It’s just you,
me, and the empty courtyard…” He trailed off. He and Harry met each other’s
eyes, and Harry took a step towards him. “Bloody hell,” he said.

*****

What began as snogging quickly turned into fist fighting, as Harry had
accidentally bitten Draco while attempting to French him. Harry had claimed he
was trying to be sexy, to which Draco had responded, “That will never happen,
Fake Potter. Never.” Currently, Draco had Harry in a headlock, and Harry’s
arms were flailing, the cow photograph clenched in one hand.

“Let me go!” Harry shouted. “Let me go!”

“Give me back that photo, cannibal!” Draco screamed back.

Harry shoved backwards. Draco lost his balance and fell off a step, sending
them both flying onto the moist ground. Harry landed partly on the blond, who
squirmed, trying to shove off Harry’s weight. Eventually, he gave up.

They lay panting on the ground. It was then Draco noticed the photo was
torn; half of it was in his hand, the other half in Harry’s. Harry must have
noticed it too, for he triumphantly held up the fist holding the picture
in the air, much like whenever he caught a Snitch at a match.

“Bastard,” Draco said.

“Prat.”

“Geek.”

“Ferret.”

They reclined in silence. Draco thought about how soft — if not squidgy — the
ground was, and how Harry’s breath, which brushed against the top of his head,
smelled very bad. Perhaps Snape was right; perhaps he did have bad taste.

“You need to brush your teeth,” he said. “Or is the infamous Fake Harry Potter
above hygiene?”

He received a sharp kick to the shin. Just then, Harry let out a strangled sound
and struggled to get up. “What–?” Draco started. But his vision was soon clouded
with the familiar, and very displeased, face of Professor Snape.

“Well, well,” Snape said softly, “isn’t this lovely?”

“Hurt me,” Harry moaned.

Draco did.

*****

TUESDAY

“This isn’t so bad,” said Draco, finishing polishing an empty beaker.

“Speak for yourself,” Harry said bitterly. “At least your work isn’t trying
to eat your flesh and harvest your organs for its offspring.”

He and Harry were ordered, as a punishment for what Snape called “being born,”
to clean out Snape’s Potions supplies. Snape had instructed Draco to take care of
the vials and flasks used daily; Harry, on the other hand, had to clean out
Snape’s Forbidden Cabinet. It held an assortment of dangerous — “And leaking,”
Harry had pointed out nervously — potions. ‘I Hate the Children’ was scribbled
on the board; a remainder from Snape’s last class. Snape himself was leaning back
in his chair and reading a book, only occasionally stopping to hiss commands at
the two teens.

“Look what you’re doing, Potter,” Snape snapped. “Don’t do a botch job of it.”

“I won’t, Profe–”

The sound of glass shattering came from Harry’s direction. It was a followed by
a colourful curse. Snape looked over the top of his book at Harry. “Potter,” he
said, annoyed, “don’t forget to wash your hands when you’re done.”

“The potion, it-it’s crawling up my arm!” Harry gasped.

Snape didn’t look up from the pages of ‘How to Resist the Urge to Commit Mass-Murder.’
“It’s more afraid of you than you are of it,” he said.

“It’s trying to burrow into my skin!” cried Harry. He began flailing about, trying
to get the violet concoction off his arm. “Get it off of me!” While twisting and
turning, he failed to notice a puddle of Banshee blood. He slipped and hit his
head on the floor.

Draco blinked at the unconscious Harry, then picked up a new flask and began
cleaning. “Rather clumsy, isn’t he, Fake Professor Snape?”

“All Gryffindors are,” Snape said. “Their lack of grace is almost as pathetic as
their lack of brains.” He waited until Draco finished with his lot before asking,
“Remove that–” He nodded at Harry. “–for me, would you, Mr. Malfoy? And if I
see you taking advantage of Potter while he’s unconscious, it’ll be an extra day
of detention. *Someone* has to finish cleaning that cabinet.”

Draco took Harry’s ankles and dragged the dark-haired teen out into the hall. His
head bobbed every time he passed over a stone in the flooring. Draco roughly dropped
Harry outside the door and stepped back. He toed Harry’s leg.

Harry stirred. Clutched his head, he moaned softly, “I think it’s in my brain.”

Draco smirked. “Fake Potter, it can’t be in your brain.” He realised he couldn’t
see the violet substance anywhere on Harry. “Okay, maybe it can be,” he admitted,
taking a step back.

The sound of footsteps drew his attention away from the twitching Harry. A seventh-year
Hufflepuff bumbled down the hall towards them, smiling pleasantly. “Are you Draco
Marfloy?”

“Malfoy,” said Draco. “*Mal*-*foy*.”

“Right,” the Hufflepuff said. “Pr–”

“Say it until you get it right,” demanded Draco. He smirked viciously; the Hufflepuff
recoiled slightly. “Don’t make me sound like a marshmallow treat. Malfoy. Say it.
Mal-foy.”

The Hufflepuff sputtered. “M-Malfoy.”

“Okay.” Draco put his hands on his hips, still smirking. “Now what did you have
to tell me?”

“Uh, Professor Dumbledore wants to see you.”

Draco nodded, as if this sort of thing was common. As if the last time he had been
called the to the headmaster’s office he hadn’t discovered horrible information
about his father — not to mention his favourite teacher. He leaned in the doorway
and called, “Fake Professor Snape, Fake Professor Dumbledore wants to see me.” He
paused and glanced over his shoulder. Harry was still crumpled on the floor. “Erm,
I think Fake Potter’s dying.”

“He’s your boyfriend,” came the reply. “You deal with it.”

The Hufflepuff raised his eyebrows. “He’s really not,” Draco told the older student.
“We’ve only been out once, and it was part of an evil plan by my father for wizard
domination.” Those eyebrows climbed higher. Draco rolled his eyes. “Does that mean
I can go?” he asked Snape.

“Of course,” said Snape. “Potter! If you’re conscious, get back in here and resume
your detention.”

“Crickey,” Harry muttered. He pushed himself up shakily and crawled back into
the classroom.

“Shall we go, then?” Draco asked the Hufflepuff.

He couldn’t figure out why the headmaster wanted to see him. Perhaps Lucius had
forgiven him, realised how right he was, and came to give him further instructions
on his plan. Or perhaps Dumbledore knew a way for him to return to his dimension.
Draco smirked. When they reached the entrance to Dumbledore’s office, the Hufflepuff
said, “Nutty-buddy,” and the wall opened.

Draco straightened his shoulders and walked inside. But his father was nowhere in
sight. In fact, Dumbledore was asleep at his desk, his long gray beard acting as
a pillow. Even his phoenix was missing.

“Erm,” Draco said. He poked the headmaster. Nothing. He poked him again. “Oh,
Bollocks. He’s not asleep, he’s dead.” He didn’t know what to do in a situation
like this. Should he run screaming from the room? Should he try — he wrinkled
his nose — CPR? Should he secretly bury the body and pretend he never saw it?
“This is why I need Father here,” he muttered. “He always knows how to handle
dead things.”

He decided the best thing to do was burn the body and then deny everything. They
would probably blame him for the death (as he was always blamed for *everything*),
so it was best to cover all his bases. Digging through Dumbledore’s desk, he found
a box of matches next to a few issues of a magazine called “Broomsticks and Bondage.”

A match was lit. He was just about to set fire to Dumbledore’s beard when the
old man’s eyes snapped open.

“Aaah!” Dumbledore cried.

“Aaah!” Draco echoed.

He dropped the match. A small fire broke out on the carpet, and he stomped on it,
trying to put it out. When he was finished, he saw Dumbledore was staring at him.

“What were you doing, Mr. Malfoy?” the headmaster asked.

“I, er, thought you looked cold,” Draco said.

Dumbledore straightened in his seat and rubbed his eyes. He cleared his throat
a few times. Finally, he said, “Mr. Malfoy, I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve
called you here.”

“Yes. I suspected my father–”

“He had nothing to do with it,” Dumbledore said firmly. “I’ve heard rumours from
your teachers that you’ve continued to claim to be from an alternate dimension. I
had hoped that you would discover this for yourself, but it’s been a week, and
there’s been no improvement…”

“What are you trying to say?” Draco asked.

Dumbledore placed his hands flat on his desk and looked at Draco very seriously.
“There is no potion, spell, curse, or charm to send you into an alternate
dimension.”

“Fake Professor,” said Draco, calmly, “I *know* I have been sent here from another
universe. It is the only explanation. Obviously, my father’s magic is of a higher
level than yours, which is why you can’t understand what’s happening.”

As Draco spoke, Dumbledore pulled a red hat off a shelf behind his desk. “This,”
the headmaster said, “is the Hat of Reason. Otherwise known as the Hat of Your
Own Stupidity. Excellent for breaking the spirits of the students and staff. It
should tell you the truth.”

“Erm,” said Draco. Dumbledore placed the hat on Draco’s head. It covered his eyes,
and he stared into the darkness. “I don’t see–”

‘Good Lord, you’re daft,’ a voice quipped. ‘Thought you were from an alternate
dimension, did you?’

“Who is this?” Draco demanded.

‘The Voice of Reason. I am the part of you deep, deep down that realizes you
can’t possibly be from an alternate dimension.’

“But–”

‘You’re not. Get over it. I am Reason, I know all.’

Draco was silent. “Oh, bugger.”

‘Exactly. And, really, Malfoy. Potter?’

He pulled off the hat angrily. “Fak– uh, Real Professor Dumbledore, why is the
hat making fun of me? And why does it sound like my father?”

“It sounds like everyone’s father. Look.” He put the hat on his own head. “No,
Daddy, no!” he cried, shrilly. Draco stared. Taking it off, he said, “See?”

“Oh,” Draco said, numbly. He didn’t know what to say. “So this is the real world,
then?”

“I’m afraid so,” Dumbledore said.

“Professor, what day is it?”

The headmaster looked confused. “Tuesday, I believe.”

“That explains everything.” Draco closed his eyes. “I fucking hate Tuesdays.”

*****

Draco sat down at the Slytherin table. He nibbled on a piece of bread, poked a
few walking veggies, then, deciding not to delay the inevitable, said, “Great
news, everyone! It turns out I’m *not* from an alternate dimension.”

His housemates stopped eating and stared at him. The table fell into a deadly
silence.

“He, he,” he said.

Most of the Gryffindor house members were surprised when a loud, “Aiiieeeeee!”
which descended into a long squeak, erupted from the Slytherin side of the dining
hall as a group of Slytherins launched themselves at Draco. Some watched in horror,
others rooted various Slytherins on, particularly Pansy, who was slamming Draco’s
head against the table. Crabbe and Goyle were trying to protect Draco from the other
Slytherins, but they were, unfortunately, also keeping anyone from helping him.

Meanwhile, Harry and Ron calmly continued to eat their dinner.

“I think your boyfriend’s getting the shit beaten out of him,” Ron said,
between bites of chicken.

Professor Snape disappeared into the mob of bodies and food, intent on
saving the blond from the fury of his own house. Several teachers were
screaming for order. A plate of grapes sailed across the hall and landed
beside Ron. He grabbed a few and popped them in his mouth.

“Oh,” Harry replied. He wiped his mouth with his napkin.

“You people are so mean,” said Hermione.

*****

WEDNESDAY

‘Dear Father, I am truly sorry for my actions. Sincerely, Draco.’

‘Dear Draco, Say what? Yours, the Highly-Esteemed Lucius Malfoy.’

‘Dear Father, It turns out I’m not from an alternate dimension after
all. Draco.’

‘Dear Draco, A Malfoy never explains and never apologises. Yours, the
Highly-Esteemed Lucius Malfoy.’

‘Father, Bugger. Draco.’

‘Draco, We’ll discuss this during the Christmas Holiday. The Highly-
Esteemed Lucius Malfoy.’

“And that,” said a voice over Draco’s shoulder, “is why Muggles invented
telephones.”

Draco crumpled the letter and glared at Harry. The corridors were empty
except for the two of them. Draco wasn’t sure why that happened so
often. “Blimey, Potter, again with the stalking? Don’t you have a
professor you have to be brown-nosing up to right now? I have loads to
do without you hanging round.”

“What could you possibly have to do that doesn’t involve torturing
someone?” Harry coolly raised an eyebrow. “Which reminds me, didn’t you
say you were going to kick my arse when you, and I quote, ‘returned to
the real world?’ You must be embarrassed now that you know you were
never in an alternate reality to begin with.”

Draco gritted his teeth, but he forced his mouth into a smirk. “Why,
Potter,” he drawled, “were you looking forward to it? Have you been a
naughty boy?”

“Whatever,” Harry said. He started walking off, and tossed over his
shoulder, “Just don’t forget to add in your next owl how you let me get
off with you. I’m sure daddy dearest would love that bit of news.”

Draco grimaced. Harry had a point; he had done a botched job at making
amends. “Hey, Potter?” The other teen stopped. “This is purely
hypothetical, but if I wanted to, say, apologise to someone for doing
something terrible, how would I go about doing it?”

Harry’s gaze softened. “Malfoy, it’s okay. Apology accepted.”

“What?” Draco asked. “Ugh, no, not *you*. I need to apologise to my
father for all the ridiculous things I’ve done in the past week. What
the hell would I have to apologise to you for?”

“Shall I make a list?” said Harry, agitated.

“It *would* give me a good laugh– Dammit, Potter, get back here! Don’t
walk away from me. I’ll–” He searched his mind for a quick response.
“–I’ll let you molest me if you help me think of a plan of action.”

Harry paused in mid-step. “W-what?”

Draco put his hands on his hips and smirked. “Come on, you think I’m
sexy, I think you’re…” Dim-witted? Smug? Horny? “*Nice*.”

“Tell me I’m bloody sexy,” demanded Harry.

“I said I’d let you molest me, I never said I’d lie.”

“Worth a shot,” Harry muttered. “Okay, here’s what you do.” Draco leaned
forward. “You tell the truth and be very sincere while apologising.”

Draco wrinkled his nose. “What? What kind of rubbish is that? ‘Be
sincere.’ I may as well throw myself off a cliff.”

“You said you wanted my advice. Now, about the molesting?”

Harry took a step forward. Draco looked for a place to run.

***

“Potter, what the hell are you doing?”

“Er, molesting you?”

“No, you’re not. I am not an animal, stop petting me. Get your hands off
my man-boobs and put them below my waist.”

“Man-boobs?”

“Um.”

“Man. Boobs.”

“Stop laughing.”

“Can’t–” *gasp* “–breathe– man– boobs!”

“I hate you.”

*wheeze*

***

“Hey, Harry,” Ron asked, “where did you get that black eye from?”

***

Draco knocked on the door to Snape’s office. At the professor’s signal,
he entered, quickly closing the door behind him. His office looked as it
always did, with low lighting and all sorts of potions lining the walls.
Snape set down whatever it was he was mixing and laced his fingers
together.

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Why do you have a bandage round your neck?” Draco asked, pointing to
said bandage.

Snape sighed dramatically. “I tried to hang myself from the Whomping
Willow, but the branch snapped. You would think that since it could
support an *automobile* crashing into it, it could hold a man. Unless it
wanted me to–” Snape’s black eyes glittered madly. “That’s it! It
*wanted* me to live.”

Draco wondered if it was a bad idea to come down here. “Of course it
hates you,” he agreed.

“Does it?” Snape murmured thoughtfully. He rubbed his chin for a long
pause before looking sharply back at Draco. “What is it you wanted, Mr.
Malfoy?”

“Professor, you have plenty of experience apologising to my father, have
you not?” Draco asked.

“I’m not telling you anything about my sex life.”

Draco digested that. “Now I have to add ‘heave’ to my list of things to
do before leaving for the holiday break,” he muttered under his breath.
He cleared his throat. “Actually, sir, I need to make amends for what
I’ve done to him and the family name, but he wouldn’t accept my apology.
I need to do something so my holiday won’t be a complete hell. I asked
Potter–” An odd expression crossed Snape’s face. “–But all he said
was to ‘be honest and sincere.’ What kind of rubbish is that?”

“Stupid Gryffindor rubbish, that’s what,” Snape sneered.

That wasn’t useful in the least. “Of course,” Draco said.

***

FRIDAY

He was standing at the train station, luggage in hand — well, not
really *his* hand, as he had several house-elves dragging his trunk
behind them; he couldn’t be expected to *carry* his own *luggage*, now
could he? — when Harry tapped him on the shoulder.

“But how did you–?” Draco sputtered.

“I meant to tell you good-bye back at Hogwarts,” Harry said sheepishly.

Draco just stared. There had to be some sort of logical explanation as
to how Potter could move effortlessly to and from the school. Perhaps he
had hypnotized Dumbledore; it would explain why the old bat thought so
fondly of Harry. “This is the train station, Potter.”

“Is it now?” Harry asked. “I must have taken a wrong turn at the corner
of ‘obviously’ and ‘couldn’t care less.’”

“My, aren’t *we* clever today?” Draco picked a piece of lint off his
robes, trying to look as bored as possible. “I don’t suppose you came
all this way to insult me.”

“Listen, I just wanted to know if I can write you,” Harry said. His
voice heightened slightly in pitch. “While you’re recovering your
senses, that is. I asked round school, but no one knew how to owl you.
Something about your father and owls and rat poison.”

Potter wanted to *write* him? Oh, that would go well with his father. He
could see it now: “Father, Potter and I are corresponding via owl to
revel in our not-so-secret love affair, do you mind?” Then he would be
killed mysteriously in the middle of the night, and, really, that sort
of thing was terribly messy.

But Harry looked so very sincere that crushing his hopes wouldn’t have
been as amusing as Draco wanted. “I suppose so,” he drawled. “But we
have to make a plan. When you write me, you shall sign your name as
Parry Hotter, and I shall be Maco Dalfoy. That way my father won’t
discover our correspondence and force me into some military school with
the intention of ’straightening me out,’ thus causing me to grow up
repressed and unhappy and possibly homicidal, forever having anonymous
sex with dark-haired, green-eyed strangers.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Have you been watching Muggle films?”

“Why do you ask?”

The train whistle blew. Draco winced.

“Why do you really want to write me?”

“Because we’re– we’re–” Potter was flustered. “*You know*.”

“We’re made for each other. Our love is that of two tormented souls
finally coming to peace after an eternity alone. Without you I am
nothing.”

“Really?” Harry asked, genuinely moved.

“Are you *high*?” Draco snapped. The train whistle blew again. At
Potter’s crestfallen expression, he bit out, “Fine, but don’t expect me
to write you back. I have much more important things to do than read
about you behaving like a twelve year old girl.”

As the train sped off towards the illustrious Malfoy Manor, Draco
realised he had never found out exactly *how* Harry had made it to the
station.

“Not an alternate universe, indeed,” he muttered darkly.

***

“Master Draco is returned,” one of the house-elves squeaked. He — she?
it? Draco could never tell with those things, and was that one of his
socks? — took a bow and skipped off quickly.

Draco stood in the doorway of his father’s study, waiting for
acknowledgement. He gazed at the expanse of the mahogany desk, behind
which Lucius sat, an unreadable expression on his thin face. His
father’s eyes were bloodshot, and the room smelled funny. The last time
he had seen Lucius like that, it was after he had been booted off the
school board. He had locked himself in his study for several days in
order to create a treat that would make the recipient refer to himself
as “the Ambassador of Pie” for a week. Needless to say, that had been an
embarrassing episode for the Ministry.

Without saying a word, Lucius slowly opened a drawer and withdrew a
shiny, silver object: a pair of nail clippers. Draco swallowed thickly,
dread tightening his throat. Lucius only clipped his nails when he was
very, very angry. Yes, something terrible was afoot.

What was it Harry had told him? Oh, yes, be honest. Forget *that*.
“Father,” he said, “I’ve come to apologise for my foolish behaviour. I
was under the influence of Potter.”

Lucius was silent. He lowered the clippers to his left hand.

“Father, please.” Click. “Really, I didn’t do anything wrong.” Click,
click, click. “Okay, I suppose I *did* date the enemy, made myself look
like a twat, and nearly killed the headmaster, but is that so bad?”

Clickclickclick.

“Father, it’s not my fault–”

Clickclickclickclickclick.

“It’snotmyfaultDaddyI’msorrypleasestopI’llfixit,” he squeaked.

Lucius slowly set the nail clippers aside. Relieved, Draco repeated,
“I’ll fix everything. Or convince others to fix it for me. Whichever
comes first.”

Pale lips twisted into a smirk, Lucius moved until he was standing
directly before Draco, his hands behind his back. Draco wondered if he
was still angry.

“Father, how might I prove my loyalty?”

“Eat this.” Lucius withdrew his hands and thrust something in Draco’s
face.

It was a twinkie.

Draco squinted. “Er, what?”

“If you believe in the Malfoy family name, you will eat this,” his
father said.

“Father–”

“If you are still the son I know and love, you will eat this,” he
continued. Draco didn’t think the twinkie looked particularly
appetizing. There was also something behind Lucius’ expression he
couldn’t put his finger on, but whatever it was, it made Draco nervous.

“Father,” he whispered, “I’m afraid.”

“You should be.” Lucius’ eyes narrowed to pale, glittering slits. “You
should be.”

Draco gingerly picked up the twinkie. “What will this do?”

“Do you not trust me?” Lucius asked. “Absolutely nothing will happen to
you.” As Draco slowly took a bite, his father’s smirk widened. “Nothing
permanent, at least,” Lucius added.

Draco dropped the half-eaten confection. His vision blurred, and he
noticed vaguely that he was falling.

***

“Waaaaah!” Draco wailed.

He had to clean up the kitchen before Harry arrived home. Starting a
cookie business in his own house had probably been the worst idea ever -
- well, not as bad as the time he had had Sirius Black neutered, but it
was bad *enough*. The kitchen was a disaster area. Frantically, he
scrubbed chocolate off the walls.

The front door slammed open. “Draco!” Harry’s voice was, as usual,
chipper. Unsuspecting. “I’m home!”

Draco wrung his apron strings nervously. He was a dead man.

“What the–? Draco, you have some ’splaining to do!” bellowed Harry.

“Waaaaah!” Draco wailed.

He woke up on a cold stone floor with his father leaning over him, very
clearly bored. He wondered how long he had been out of it.

“Poison,” Draco wheezed.

“Drastic times call for drastic measures, my boy,” Lucius drawled. “As
soon as I realised you were serious about your infatuation with this
Potter boy, I concocted a spell that would show you one of many possibly
futures. And by ’spell’ I mean ‘hallucinogenic drug.’”

His father truly was evil. If Draco’s mouth hadn’t taste like cotton he
would have congratulated him.

“Now.” Lucius steepled his fingers in a very evil manner. His joints
creaked audibly as he took to his knees, but his expression didn’t
shift. “About this Potter boy.”

Draco rolled his head so he was looking directly into Lucius’ eyes.
“Father, I am proud to be a Malfoy. I am proud to be loosely affiliated–”
He coughed into his hand. “–with the Dark Lord. I will handle this
situation as a true Malfoy should.”

Lucius smirked.

“However,” Draco continued.

“However?” Lucius echoed, startled.

“I really can’t make the father of my children call himself the
Ambassador of Pie,” Draco said. Then he passed out.

There was a long silence as Lucius digested this. He snapped his
fingers, and several house-elves came and dragged Draco away. Lucius
watched until his son’s blond head disappeared into the shadows.

“I’m a good father,” Lucius mused aloud.

***

TUESDAY

Harry knew the post was from Draco when the owl tried to drop it on his
head in the middle of breakfast. The letter was tied to a rock with a
flimsy piece of green string. The large, foreboding Malfoy seal in the
centre was also a dead give-away. The Gryffindor table fell silent as
everyone watched for Harry’s reaction.

“Honestly, everyone,” Hermione said, exasperated.

She started to reach for it, but Ron blocked her with his fork.
“Careful, it’s probably cursed,” he warned. “I reckon Lucius Malfoy
isn’t happy Harry deflowered his son.”

Harry rolled his eyes. Gingerly, he broke the seal with his butter
knife, and the rich parchment unfurled.

‘Parry Hotter,’ he read out loud.

‘The weather here is splendid. Father released the hounds yesterday, and
they caught three house-elves attempting to escape the grounds.

‘Having spent the last two days in a drug-induced fever, I have taken the
time to ponder our relationship, or lack thereof. It brings me great
pain to admit that you were correct about us; we are, indeed, meant for
each other. Despite that for years I have dreamed about nothing but your
utter humiliation and even death, there is no one else that can match my
greatness. You should be very honoured to be the beau of a Malfoy.

‘If you read this aloud to the Weasel, I swear I will kill you.’

‘Love’ was crossed out, and replaced with, ‘With Something Resembling
Fondness,

‘Draco Malfoy.’

The other Gryffindors stared at Harry in horror.

“Bloody hell,” Ron sputtered.

“That’s nice,” Harry said calmly. “Too bad I have to kill him now. Nice
to know it took an acid trip for him to realise how much he likes me.”

Everyone sat in uncomfortable silence.

“Just kidding,” Harry said.

“You know an awful lot about Muggle drugs,” Ron accused.

Ginny laughed nervously.

***

THE END.

NO, REALLY.

Author’s Notes:

First of all, thanks to Aja for beta reading this chapter; Bobthetrout!Katie for her
advice on works in progress; Kissaki and Rube for encouraging me to do this,
even when I wanted to rip out my hair. I want to thank everyone from Veela Inc.,
Fiction Alley, Livejournal, and everywhere else in between for all their feedback,
praise, and criticism. This was the first story I ever wrote for Harry Potter. I’ve
been through many, many changes in this fandom since I began, and even though
I will never be the same person I was when I sat down for the first time to write a
story about H/D and their twu wuv, it’s been an amazing journey.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created
and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited
to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner
Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.