A/N: Yep, there are pairings in here, loads, and gayness, bisexualness, straightness, otherness and, of course, extreme wackiness and trolling and adventure, hard ons, chamber pots and a complete disregard of important parts in the seventh book. It will also have adventure and a plot line, somewhere, maybe, eventually? (cause I can't ever get away from plot lines. Plotbunnieseverwhere)

This is my first Harry Potter fic. Enjoy.

Trollin baby

So, like, one day Harry Potter hit Draco Malfoy in the face. Like seriously. A big wham, bam, thank you you-prissy-looking-veela-mam cause now I have a hard on. Or maybe he already had the hard one. And that was why he hit said prissy-looking-veela-man.

In the face.

If you haven't got that by now.

Anyway, the point is, said Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world, golden boy of the whole world (the muggles just didn't know) and sex god incarnate (have you seen his hair in the third movie? Not that there's a movie, because Harry's life isn't fictional and based in-between sheets of paper that millions of trees died for) had hit Draco Malfoy in the face.

Because he was hard.

And that was obviously Draco's fault. I mean, Malfoy's, cause nothing means bitterness and hatred and unresolved sexual tension like calling someone by their last name. It's what all the rivals-later-turned-lovers do these days.

"What the hell Potter?" Case in point. See, he said Potter here. And no, there wasn't a little bit of hurt in these words, apart from the physical pain that forcing bone to go a way it should not go does to one.

"No Malfoy, what the hell to you. Just what the hell," Harry said, well, mumbled, stumbled, did something weird to his words because Harry can be quite ineloquent and retarded when he speaks. It's sort of cute. Like those worn teddy bears with the button eye only attached by string. Maybe that's why Voldermort wanted Harry so much, maybe he just liked fixing those lonely, broken bears (and then breaking them again so he could spend all that time fixing them up once more.)

It might also have been anger (and Harry does have some serious anger issues that he bottles up) that made Harry's voice go all high pitched.

Or the raging hard-on.

Whatever.

So Harry Potter decked Draco Malfoy in the face, they squabbled, everyone was shocked, confused, slightly turned on (Draco, cause that boy had to be masochistic in some way with the way he kept chasing –stalking- Harry everywhere,) and walked/ran away, fleeing out from the Great Hall.

"Harry," two well-loved voices called out, one scandalised and worried, the other half congratulating Harry but wondering if he'd get to sock Draco one too if he came after his best mate.

Ron felt a little put out that he was the only one of the golden trio to not have punched Malfoy in the face. He really wanted to.

Just once.

"I'll get you for this Potter," Malfoy – not Draco – threatened, but it was his usual threat and everyone sort of brushed it cause Draco's a bit of a veela-faced-wimp and was too busy trying to stem the blood (and hurt) that was pouring off of him.

Crabbe or Goyle (the not-dead one okay?) loomed over Malfoy, trying to seem helpful without actually helping his boss and Draco shrugged the big boy off, bypassing Pansy who was open-mouthed and wide-eyed at the fact that Harry's hand could have well indeed hit her in the face.

Draco stalked out of the Great Hall, following the dramatic exit of Potter, Weasley and Granger with a whoosh of his robes.

Cause robe whooshing is a Slytherin thing and Draco's really good at Slytherin things.

He'd practiced every night in his first year.

Snape sneered from his seat up high, turned on (yep, he'd been in that category) and feeling slightly proud of Draco's whoosing abilities. It took a lot of effort and time to pull it off and one day, maybe, Snape thought tearily, Draco might even get to his level.

Snape's sneer turned to this freaking sort of smile which was more like a twitching leer.

Hah, as if.

"Well students, it seems an explanation is in order," Dumbledore interrupted the quiet, sagely and old and ready to give advice as everyone turned to him. He smiled, eyes twinkling merrily and all waited with baited breath, even the ghosts, who didn't breathe so they just waited with baited nothingness.

It made them feel lonely and dead. Which they, in fact were.

"Let's start desert."

Magically, desert appeared upon all the tables, Neville yelping in surprise as the fork raised to his mouth, chicken on it, was instead weighed down by a large piece of caramel tart. Similar responses echoed throughout the room.

And Dumbledore smiled serenely, sitting back down (though no one knew when he had stood) and went to his own desert of lemon drops. He popped one in his mouth and started up a conversation with the stilted, sexual-repressed for the gay man Professor McGonagall.

Seamus Finnigin shuddered.

Dumbledore's troll face was going to haunt his sleep again.

The Eighth year, as it had so rightfully been dubbed, was a welcome to one Harry James Potter. A relief because it was familiar and safe (only person that could really ever break in was little old Riddle with an army of fanatics behind him because he was the only one batshit insane to try.) So when that letter had come from Professor Dumbledore, who was in fact, not dead, but had fake-died (Snape was surprised too) so he could leave everything up to Harry, Harry was comforted.

Dumbledore had thought Harry, you know, needed a boost with his Voldermort-hate. Not that he didn't already have enough reasons to kill Voldermort, but good ol' Dumby added the 'killing-the-only-person-that's-ever-been-like-a-father/grandfather/crazy Uncle (no wait, that's Sirius)/dude to the list.

Just to make sure.

And he'd really thought he was going to die, but then, in his comatose state, where he'd lingered in that coffin for like a whole school year (because they're adventures always started at the beginning of the school year and finished at the end), without air but surviving cause he was Dumbledore, he'd miraculous been healed.

Of all of his afflictions.

His hand was all normal coloured now. But he was still sagely and wise and stuff.

So Dumbledore had stepped out of his coffin, that was fortunately above ground as had been stated in his will, and which had no lid because someone else had taken it off (weird.) He'd gotten up, skipped over to his ruined castle, kicked a random evil doer lying on the ground because nu-uh, they did not just do that to his Hogwarts and walked in happily to see lots of dead people, a dead Voldermort (in his snake-face hah!) and lots of people crying/celebrating.

Then Harry had seen him, stepped out of Ginny's embrace and made gold-fish motions with his mouth.

Cause Dumbledore was alive.

Dumbledore had waved happily, pushed his moon glasses up and said. "So Harry, it seems you have defeated Lord Voldermort."

Then he held out his arms, troll face in place (not that he'd planned to live but hey, whatever worked, there was probably a prophecy about this lying in the smashed remains of the Department of Mysteries, which hadn't been cleaned up yet) and Harry had run over to him, tears majestically slipping off his face like diamonds and his beautiful green eyes shining wetly behind overlarge glasses that never seemed to fall off and could easily be replaced by more battle-friendly contacts.

Or as my friend said, if they're in a wizarding world and can heal broken bones with a flick of the wrist, why don't they just heal Harry's eyesight?

I had been shocked, horrified and proven wrong in my belief that there weren't that many inconsistencies in the Harry Potter Series – I mean his life story.

Damn plot holes, as a writer I know how annoying they are. How sneaky.

So they'd hugged and cried and Remus had limped out as well, somehow miraculously saved by his werewolf powers that totally put him in a death-like state too. Tonks was still dead though, unfortunately (I like her but someone needs to stay dead for this story, like just one.) And we're not going to go on to how Harry saw all of them when he was marching off to die because he just did okay.

He just did.

Cause they were either dead or half-dead. Or trolling.

Cause Dumbledores a troll.

But yeah, Harry got the letter, asking all the seven year students back for an eighth year (the ones still alive anyway) and Harry had said yes. Because he needed to take his N.E.W.T.S again and he needed to get better at potions without cheating.

To be an Auror you had to get pretty good grades in potions and Harry really wanted to be an Auror. That or a flamingo dancer.

Pink just really worked with him you know? Especially around the thighs. He could probably get a job as Dumbly Dores exotic dancer. Cause Dumbly Dores likes young boys.

Not cause he was gay, cause being gay doesn't make you a paedophile but because he's Dumbledore and Harry's Harry.

So Harry went back to school, with Ron and Hermione and a Ginny who was always trying to help (which is nice but she should realise by now that Harry has obvious issues with people trying to help him) and everyone else.

But there wasn't room for them in the common rooms and they really couldn't deal with anyone younger than them, so they got their own tower.

For all the eighth years.

It had been dubbed the 'heroes of the wizarding world tower' by the young ones, HOTWWT for short and just called 'tower' by the eighth years, though Seamus and Dead Thomas had created some spectacular names that only Neville and Luna had seemed interested in. Pansy had kept quiet, cause she'd tried to give Harry away to Voldermort and even if she'd been panicking with all the dead people and the fact that her mother was dead, yeah no. No one was going to let that go.

Draco still wasn't talking to her. Though really, he'd sort of done worse. Hypocrite.

So they all lived in tower, together. The Hufflepuffs (does anyone know the name of a surviving eighth year Hufflepuff? I got nothing), the Slytherins, the Ravenclaws (again, who?) and the Gryffindors.

And only one of the Parvati twins cause the other one died. No one knows which one she is though so it doesn't really matter. She was just there to remind everyone how sad it was when a twin died, which reminded them of Fred. And now that was sad.

Cause Fred was Fred. Or maybe it was George that died. Damned twins.

So they lived together. All together. With issues and angst and the memories of the past war lingering over their heads.

And Draco Malfoy wouldn't talk to Harry Potter. Not a peep, not a wordthreatinsultapology. Nothing. Not even for his wand back (which Harry had broken cause it was EVIL.)

And Harry wasn't really talking either, only really to Teddy, Remus' baby, which couldn't do anything other than gurgle though maybe that was why Harry liked him so much. And he hugged Dumbledore (who he loved slash sort of hated for essentially setting him up to die even if it was for the greater good), sneaking up into his office at night and curling around the old man who conjured a bed out of nowhere.

Completely PLATONIC.

So they weren't talking and they were angsting and everyone was horribly traumatised over the war so the Slytherins segregated themselves and the Ravenclaws read books and the Hufflepuffs tried to cook lots of food and make everyone happy because they weren't happy either. And the Gryffindors circled around Harry and protected him.

And that's how it went, for the first two months. Plus Harry avoiding his zealous fans and the media.

And then Harry Potter punched Draco Malfoy in the face and Draco ran off and cried. After his robe whooshing.

And this is where the story starts people.

This is where it starts.

With trollin baby~