Written by The R in Ramschabare
Warnings: Slash, bad writing, language, and my not being British at all. If you don't like any of that stuff don't read this, and certainly don't send nasty flames.
Rating: T to be safe.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize from the books. The plot itself is a parody, so I don't even own that. Waaah.
Flames will be used to line my gecko's cage. And this is my first fanfic and certainly not my best writing. I look forward to Britpicking and constructive criticisms. Also, I have this eensy teensy ENORMOUS haboit of repeating phrases and words repeating phrases and words. I'm very sorry.
Whumph.
Chapter One: A very Unfortunate Occurrence.
Albus Dumbledore was a very simple person. He liked socks, raspberry jam, and Phoenix Fancy magazine. That was all he wanted for his birthday. So why did he keep getting prophecies? Every year, the entire Hogwarts staff would spike Trelawney's food and leave her in his office as a sort of birthday present, expecting that she'd come up with something important. But she never did, except for the one year when she prophesized that his favorite jam makers would go out of business. Other years, she drooled all over his favorite armchair and gurgled something like "Yooouu left the oven on, Romilda" His worst year had been when she came in completely unconscious, levitated by a very sour Professor Snape. His hair had all been turned pink, and he held two wands in his left hand.
"Flitwick forgot to take the wand away from her, sir" he drawled. "McGonagall's got a similar hairstyle, and we can't find any way to get rid of it." That had been terrible. He had spent his entire birthday trying to hex the hair off their heads, with little success. And now again, Hagrid was dragging the Divination teacher up the spiral staircase. Albus swallowed as he heard the bumping that meant she would probably have a concussion when she got up to the office. He touched a silver gadget, which immediately spat out two Veine's Headache Busters. Where was his Phoenix Fancy, May/June? Sibyl's foot appeared through the door, followed by the rest of her, this year on a hand truck. As Hagrid not so tenderly placed her in the stripy armchair to the left of his expansive desk she emitted a gurgle that sounded suspiciously like "Harry." Or "muffin", but he couldn't take the chance. He got up, his rusty-colored robes swooshing around his ankles.
"Uh, Headmaster" Hagrid said "Yer not wearin' any shoes."
"They ruin the fun of the socks, Hagrid." At the sound of "socks" Trelawney opened a bleary eye and made another strange noise. This one was either "Malfoy", or "Giraffe".
Albus peered over her semi-comatose form, taking in the strong smell of sherry and treacle tart with a grimace.
"Sibyl, please speak up" Albus said in his kindest, twinkliest tone, one he normally reserved for Death Eaters and high-up Ministry officials. "Please." This was spoken in a more pained tone, as Sibyl had taken hold of his beard and pulled hard.
"Nice beard" she said in a distinctly more magisterial tone of voice.
"Phineas Nigellus?" he queried. Sibyl's head snapped up. Her eyebrows were arched in a manner that reminded him especially of the portrait.
"None other, Dumpydolt. Now listen up. I've only got a little while." Dumbledore nodded, and stepped back, jerking his beard out of the grip of an increasingly awake Sibyl.
"You need to make the Malfoy brat move in with Potter. I'm not supposed to tell you why, but they have to be close. Or else they die. It's a Wizard Bond, and all that shit. Hey, is that my portrait?"
"Tell me why, Phineas, please!" But Sibyl had now gotten up and was curiously examining the frame.
"Nice, Dumpy. Very nice. Of course, there's a little dust over here-ow!"
Dumbledore had grabbed Sibyl and dragged her back to the stripy chair.
"Tell me why, Phineas! Please!" All the twinkle had gone out of his voice and was replaced by a sort of choked scream.
"I can't tell you why-didn't I make that clear? All I can say is that you will need mild sedatives for the Malfoy brat. A drowsiness potion perhaps. Oooh! A phoenix!" Dumbledore had a maddened look on his face. The twinkle in his eyes had been replaced by a glint of rage.
"Tell me why I need to, Nigellus! Tell me! Now now now!" A vein in his left cheek twitched.
"Didn't I already say no? Are you getting a hearing problem in your antiquity? And there's a catch. Of course, there always is in these sorts of things. My word, is that Archibald Dippet?" Sibyl struggled to get up, and shook her head, as though to slough off the possessive spirit.
"You mean worse than having to put two of my students who hate each other in the same room forever?" Dumbledore said. Sibyl rolled her eyes.
"Of course it's worse. These things always are. In addition to the normal Wizard Bond, there's another enchantment. Apparently, whenever they deny who they truly are, the bond becomes more restrictive. In short, they have to get closer. Man, this possession thing is fun. I should do it more often." And Sibyl Trelawney dropped to the floor with a crash and another gurgle. Hagrid, hiding in the corner, scooped her up and put her on the hand truck. As they bumped down the spiral staircase, punctuated by curses from Hagrid and gurgles from Sibyl, Dumbledore heavily sank into another blue chair.
"It appears I will have to give her another raise."
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It was not often that the Dursleys got visitors. It was even rarer that they got them at 1:30 in the morning. But indeed it was, Harry Potter noted, 1:30 in the morning. And his aunt and uncle were shaking him awake.
"You stupid boy! Wake up now!" roared his Uncle Vernon, a beefy and very purple man with a gingery mustache. His aunt Petunia, a thin, horsy woman with a very long neck, was beating Harry's legs with a broom. Her face, too, was purple, covered with a cream of some sort.
"Aggers?" Harry muttered through the intermittent yelling of his uncle, whose anger had passed beyond words.
"There is a strange boy downstairs who claims to be one of your people" hissed Petunia.
"Eh? Ron?" Harry asked.
"No, not that beastly family. A blond boy. And he won't leave!" Uncle Vernon had hauled Harry to his feet and begun pushing him towards the door. He seemed to be turning the color of blueberry pie, and tufts of his mustache were missing, a sure sign that Harry was in trouble. Who did he know who was blond? And who did he know stupid or desperate enough to come here? As he was pushed down the stairs, a strange thought came into his head. Draco Malfoy.
"Ha! The bastard!" said Harry. Perhaps a little too loudly. But seriously, who? His aunt and uncle paused in their herding for a minute. They gave Harry another shove with the tips of their fingers.
"No bad language, boy!" And just like that, he was crumpled in a heap in their living room, staring up at expensive dragon-skin boots the color of rotten plums.
"Not a morning person, Potter?" Draco Malfoy sat, perched on one of the horrendously flowered couches, a nasty grin playing about his face. He looked fairly haggard, though his hair was brushed and gelled into its usual shape (Cream puff). His Muggle flannel shirt was buttoned back to front, like wizard's robes, and he had an expensive purple cloak slung over his shoulders. He looked down at Harry's prone form and laughed.
"In case you haven't noticed, Mal-ferret" Harry said, picking himself up "It's very early in the morning." Then he looked down. What a night to sleep in boxers.
"Goldfish, Potter?" Malfoy chuckled. "And they don't even move." He smirked nastily and for a second, reminded Harry strongly of his mother, Narcissa Malfoy. Harry noticed he was holding three pieces of paper. One he proffered to Harry almost grudgingly.
"Take it, Potter. Don't just stand there." Harry grabbed the paper, which had the seal of the Ministry of Magic on it, and unfolded it. It was very crinkly, and had what looked like tearstains on it. The quill had been forced through the paper in several places, and the parchment had bite marks on it, as though someone had gnawed it in rage.
Dear Mr. Potter,
In light of recent events, the Ministry of Magic has decided to grant you a full and complete exemption from the Reasonable Restriction for Underage Wizardry. As a result, you are now allowed to perform any spell or make any potion as you so desire. Please be aware that the Statute of Secrecy is still upheld in your case. I can't believe I'm writing this! Now every young witch or wizard with a sharp lawyer will want one! I'll never leave the office again! They had better give me a raise. I dislike you personally. Aaagh!
With seething hatred for you and your ilk,
Archibald Plumpett, Minister's Assistant.
Harry gaped. This was too good to be true. He ran his hands nervously over his hair. The people he could hex! The things he could do to Dudley to make up for all those years! But a nagging suspicion crossed his mind. What if Malfoy was faking and was only trying to get him expelled? And more importantly-what was he doing at four Privet Drive? He stepped back.
"If you need a demonstration, Pothead." Malfoy took out his wand and levitated one of Aunt Petunia's horrible clown figurines into the air. Sure, no Ministry owl swooped in.
At this, the Dursleys finally came down the stairs again, this time with Dudley in tow. Uncle Vernon screamed loudly when he saw the figurine floating in the air.
"You will not do that in my house! There will be no unnatural perversions in my living room! And you? What in God's name are you doing here? Get out of my house! Out! Be gone! Out! " Uncle Vernon picked up the pale boy and threw him into the hallway with a resounding smash. Uncle Vernon came stomping after him next, looking like bad custard in his pale blue pajamas. His mustache trembled and, with a careless sweep of his hand, shut the door to the hallway. As soon as the door clicked shut a searing pain ripped through his head and down into his torso. His body was being torn apart atom by atom; pain as he'd never known it before was running through his body. It was worse than the Cruciatus curse, worse because his heart was breaking as well as his body. In short, it hurt like a mother. Tears streamed down his face and blood poured from his nose as he struggled towards the door. He saw his uncle step back, horrified as he took out his wand and blasted the door away. As soon as the barrier was down the pain stopped immediately. Blessed relief, so wonderful he could hardly stand it. Then he realized where he had stumbled to in his fever.
"Potter, you're in my lap!" yelled Malfoy. Harry screamed. This was worse than the pain by far. He jumped up and ran straight into a wall, falling back on the floor. Through blurry eyes he saw that the front of Malfoy's robes were also soaked with blood.
"And you see why I am at this pathetic muggle hovel at a time of night I would prefer to be sleeping, Potter."
"Funny, I still don't get it.." Malfoy gritted his teeth and started to talk. As Malfoy explained that they would have to live together from now on (Harry screamed again), that there could be no major physical barrier between them (Harry gulped), and that if it were ever to get any better that emotional barriers would have to break down as well (Harry nearly cried at this).
"My suitcases are in here. Do you have an extra bed?" Malfoy picked up two black leather bags and carried them into the living room, where Uncle Vernon was trying to salvage what remained of the door. Aunt Petunia was nervously peering over the third piece of paper with Dudley, who looked up at them and laughed. Aunt Petunia hid the paper in her greenish bathrobe and stood up. Dudley barely suppressed a giggle looking at Harry and Malfoy.
"Ha! You poofters!" he choked out between laughs.
"You said what?" hissed Malfoy. Dudley stood up and pointed one fat finger at Harry.
"I knew it! I knew it! Harry's a-erk." Harry had pointed his wand at Dudley's throat and backed him up against the repaired fireplace. Dudley squirmed with laughter still. He giggled.
"Ha! You can't do anything! They'll kick you out of that weird school you go to!" Harry smirked. Very quietly, he said the incantation for the Bat-Bogey Hex and jumped away. No matter the ferret, it was going to be a very good summer.
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"There's only one bed, Pothead. I assume you'll be getting the floor." Malfoy threw his suitcases in a corner and sat on the bed, a horrible grin on his face as Harry contemplated the cold floor.
"Not happening, Malformed. Conjure a sleeping bag. And while you're at it, conjure a wall so I don't have to look at your pointy face all night."
"How about we duel for it, Potter?" Harry's eyes began to tear up painfully. The floor between him and Malfoy seemed endless, forever. A vast desert of nothing, that three feet of scuffed hardwood. He took a step across it.
"No duels, Malfoy. I wouldn't waste even one curse on you." Whumph. Malfoy had run straight at him with a wild look on his face. They were desperately clasped together within ten seconds. Malfoy scrabbled for a hold on Harry's shoulders and grimaced.
"Way to go, Pothead." They shuffled haphazardly to the door and peered outside, the cat flap from Harry's second year creaking. When at last sure that nobody, not even the irate Uncle Vernon, was going to see them, they crept back into Harry's room.
"I guess this settles who gets the bed," grumbled Harry. Malfoy, whose head was buried in Harry's shoulder, gave a retching sound.
"And don't think I'm enjoying this, Potter."
That night was the strangest of Harry's life. Lying awake, pressed cheek to cheek with his worst enemy feeling waves of revulsion and tranquility alternately pulse through him while the grunting snores and chattering teeth of his aunt and uncle kept him alert. Sleep evaded him, and he couldn't turn over. Not without his wand held firmly in case Malfoy should wake up and think to do away with him. The bastard. The nice-smelling bastard.
The long hours ticked away as the shadows from the cars on Magnolia crescent arced over the ceiling like ghosts on a film reel. Perhaps it was the heat of the summer night, but when Harry fell asleep at about four o' clock in the morning, he felt content. It was a strange sort of content, but content indeed.
Harry was woken by the smell of crackling bacon, and a yell from Aunt Petunia.
"Wake up those things and tell them it's time for breakfast. Then get Dudders. He has a doctor's appointment today." Harry shot up.
"Malformed, wake the hell up! They're coming in!" He smacked Malfoy aside the head with his copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Malfoy grabbed Harry's hand and pulled him forward onto the bed.
"No. No wakey up. Noo" said Malfoy in a distinctly garbled tone. Harry jerked his hand out of Malfoy's python-like grasp with a wince of distaste and hit him again, this time with Dudley's busted video camera. This time Malfoy got up.
"What in God's name was that, Potter? I swear I'll kill you next time that happens." Malfoy swung his legs over the bed and began to put on a pair of slippers that on closer inspection proved to have evil pastries embroidered on them, such as fanged muffins.
"Empty threats, Malfoy. Can't live without me, remember?' Malfoy looked down at his feet and made a retching sound.
"How could I forget, Pothead? I had dreams I was being strangled last night!" In truth, Malfoy had had very different dreams, most of which involved Harry, but he was not about to let this on. A knocking came at the door, punctuated by various roars of outrage from Uncle Vernon.
"I'm coming in, and you better be decent! I can't believe we have to let this nasty abnormal child stay in our house…" Aunt Petunia cleared her throat.
"As I had been explaining, we do not want to have our nephew die! Especially not when we are supposed to be taking care of him! Imagine how that would look! What would the neighbors think?" Draco snorted.
"Loving relatives you've got, Potty."
"I can't imagine it's a picnic in your house, either." Draco looked at him with an expression of utmost loathing.
"No, it isn't." Harry was stunned. Here was Draco Malfoy saying something truthful and non-sardonic. The world was going to end. He felt something loosen up and scooted away from Malfoy. Unfortunately, their hands had not broken with each other.
And that's when Uncle Vernon came in.
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Vernon Dursley disliked his nephew greatly. It was not just his awful, sticky-up hair, or his gooey green eyes or his aberrant personality. It was his dangerousness. From the time he had been put on their doorstep he had just invited trouble. Small men bowing to him in supermarkets, levitating objects, flying motorcycles above his house! His house!
And the fan mail! Every night he had to shred hundreds of letters to "Harry Potter", "The Boy who Lived" and "Our Great Leader". And when he turned eleven? Everything had just gone down the tubes since then. He had come back to Privet Drive with an owl (An owl!), a suitcase full of spell books and an elevated sense of importance, all things they had tried to beat out of him. There had been the flying car incident, Marge's blowing up, and the entire summer of his fifth year. That pestilential school. And now he had brought one of his nasty friends to live here, with them. And Petunia had stopped short at calling that sneering boy his boyfriend. Boyfriend! The contents of that letter from the headmaster of that school had made Uncle Vernon's blood boil. He was not a prejudiced man, no, completely open, but in his house? Never, ever, would Dudley do such a thing. Just goes to show you, he reminded himself, that Harry was not even worth the effort. What had he bothered giving him socks every birthday and Dudley's old clothes? And now this Ministry exemption?
"Boy and thing! Get off your arses and-erk." Uncle Vernon's face twitched weirdly. It was obvious he had seen Harry and what's-his-name's hands. Touching. Draco looked up at his expression and Harry smirked. Glancing sideways, he began to rub Harry's hand in concentric circles. Harry glared at Malfoy.
"Play along, Potty" he whispered. Harry looked at him in astonishment.
"Come on" whispered Draco. Harry set his teeth and moved his hand closer to Malfoy's leg. Anything to get Uncle Vernon angry. Uncle Vernon swallowed.
"Ahem." He hiccoughed and reddened. "Ahem. Ahem. AHEM!" Harry was now touching Malfoy's leg with the tips of his fingers. Meanwhile, Malfoy was still rubbing his hand, now in sweeping spirals. Harry nearly gasped when Malfoy's hand began to travel up his arm and onto his shoulder. Yucky, he kept thinking, must think of Malfoy as yucky. Bad thoughts! No! And somehow, the two boys forgot about Uncle Vernon. They were only pulled out of their reverie by an "ahem" from Uncle Vernon that could have shattered the windows.
"A-HEM. Ahem. Ahem! AHEM! Ahem! Ahem!" sputtered Uncle Vernon.
His ruddy face looked like a treacle tart gone bad, emphasized by his tan suit and disgusting "grapes and mandolins" tie. (A/N: I was very close to getting one for my friend Matt. They are atrocious.)
"Yes, Mr. Dursley?" asked Malfoy sweetly. His gray eyes seemed to shine with a malevolence that made even Uncle Vernon step back.
"Ti-ti-time for breakfast. And get properly dressed, boy" gesturing to Harry, who was still topless. Harry grinned.
"Yes, Uncle Vernon." And with that, he squeezed Malfoy's leg one more time.
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When Uncle Vernon had left the room, near cardiac arrest, Harry whooped.
"Whatever are you doing that for, Potter?" Malfoy asked.
"I have never seen him look so disturbed in my life! You are a ferrety genius-" Harry crowed. "-And get your hand off my hand!" Malfoy complied, edging away from Harry and his manic expression. Harry got up and pulled out a pair of pants and a shirt out of his beat-up wardrobe, another Dudley hand-me-down that bore vestigial marks of gnawing. He put them on and belted the five sizes too large pants around his waist. Malfoy watched this with a mix of pity and merriment.
"You don't know the Sizing Charm? This explains half of your appearance, I suppose." Malfoy got up and took his wand out of the back pocket of his khakis. A muttered incantation later, Malfoy had fallen onto the floor in shock.
Harry Potter had an ass. And not just that, but a nice ass. Malfoy gurgled a bit, sounding a bit like a sea lion.
"Malfoy, you sound like a broken lawnmower."
"I know." He struggled to get up. It was only then Harry got a good look at Malfoy's clothes. He stifled a laugh.
"Malfoy…Most Muggles don't wear lumberjack shirts and lavender women's khakis." Harry grabbed a pair of jeans and thrust them at Malfoy, giggling madly. Malfoy shrunk them to his size and put them on. The stretchy blue fabric felt strange so close to his skin and he turned around bowleggedly. As he walked towards the door looking like a frog with chafe, Harry turned from his position at the window.
"You don't walk that way with jeans! You look like a complete idiot!" Harry said. Whumph. Malfoy had run like mad at Harry and jumped him. He was now clinging desperately to Harry's torso. Harry, pinned against the wall, made a desperate noise similar to slippers on carpet, and at about the same decibel level. They once again staggered to the door in a deathlike embrace.
"Pothead?"
"What?" Harry asked.
"This is your fault."
"Yes. I know."
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Please please please review! It would mean the world to me!
-The R