Disclaimer - (Basically, because JK Rowling would probably jump at the chance to sue me if she read even a fraction of this story-thing-whatever-the-hell-it-is) I do not own Harry Potter or any of the (supposedly) 'magical' crap which revolves around him including locations, other characters/creatures, items, plot-holes, etc. . I do not want to. If I did, all of this would have been published, and I would not have any plot-holes, and, yes, Sirius would not have been killed by curtains, Fred would not have been killed by a wall and Remus and Tonks and Moody would not have died (although, as far as I'm concerned, they're not dead if she didn't give them 'death-scenes'. They could be in the forest with the centaurs, God knows — or — or . . . in a hotel . . . doing crack-deals or having sexual encounters with houseplants).

Note - Basically, this was a spur-of-the-moment thing during which I ranted on AIM to one of my few friends about how everyone (all of my favorite characters) died because of Harry Potter. And I exclaimed, vehemently, how he should have had a Decent Plan B, how he usually has a Plan A but then something . . . somehow . . . goes horribly wrong and people die. And I said "It's like he doesn't think it through, like his mind's elsewhere for part two of the planning part, how he insists this shit won't happen and then it does and it's like . . . whoops, sorry you died."

And the part I mentioned with how his 'mind's somewhere else'? That's what led to the drug-addictions and the crack-whores, and the pimps (namely Lucius, which is rather obvious) and the smugglers and the money-laundering in the basement of number 12 Grimmauld Place. . . .

And, truth be told, if you actually 'read-between-the-lines' in every Harry Potter book, you will actually begin to see how my story makes sense.

Chapter One

In Which Severus Snape Attempted To Bitch-Slap Some Sense Into Harry Potter

Day One

The clock in the corner glares behind the cage of cold metal bars that surround it from its perch so high above the door, and the black dashes of hands seem fixed on the twelve, and have been for the past hour and a half, as far as he can tell. He's not sure, really, how long the clock's been like that or how long he's been confined to the stark-white sheeted bed he's currently laying in, because the last thing he remembers is being in the Great Hall after battling Voldemort face-to-face. He remembers mostly faceless bodies amidst flashes of green and red light, and horror rushing through his system.

His limbs are too heavy to move, his head pounding and his eyes seem to be burning, his entire body reduced to feeling only a dull, throbbing pain. His thoughts are merely fleeting whispers as the door opens and his eyes meet the sallow face of Severus Snape who appears to be pushing Dumbledore in a wheelchair while simultaneously attempting to keep the heavy door open as he does so.

And it strikes him as odd, and something more, but the edges of his perception are blurred, his thoughts slurred in his head.

They should be dead and he must be seeing things. He must be sleeping, dreaming — something.

Snape positions Dumbledore to the right of him and then moves to drag a chair from the edge of the room— funny, he hadn't noticed it there before— to the left side of his bed. Dumbledore is the first to speak, and he barely registers his sharp, yet tired voice ringing in his ears.

Addressing Snape, "Did they mention which medication he is on?" Snape makes some sort of absurd gesture with his hand and then glares at the wall as Dumbledore nods in understanding. The bearded man turns to him, "Harry, how are you feeling?"

He is struck with the possibility that this entire scene might be — just has to be — a hallucination.

He's vaguely aware of his own voice croaking, "Tired." He clears his throat, barely lifts his head from the pile of pillows. "Where . . . where am I?"

Dumbledore and Snape exchange a brief glance, an unreadable look. Dumbledore says, "The doctors," here he pauses, making eye-contact, "they say you may be far too tired to process much, but, if you are willing to try, I believe I can sufficiently explain to you everything that has happened in your absence, Harry. Are you willing to try?"

Harry shot him a perplexed look. He remembered everything perfectly, so what was the problem?

Dumbledore sighed.

"Severus?" Snape procured a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. Harry noted that this was, perhaps, the only time he had ever seen the two men before him donning any sort of muggle clothing. He watched as Dumbledore withdrew a cigarette from the pack, handed the pack back to Snape, and then took out a lighter from his breast pocket to light it. He inhaled deeply, and, turning to Harry, began what Harry knew would most likely be a very long monologue.

"You are in rehab, Harry." He paused, tugging at a strand of white beard. "I know it is very shocking, but, it is very true all the same."

"Rehab?" Harry choked. "As in— me— drugs?"

"Quite right, Harry," he gestured vaguely at nothing and ashes flew in several directions.

"But— I— how?"

Those twinkling eyes regarded him with some sort of form of humor as he said, "Harry, you have a problem. A serious problem. A deadly addiction. Have you noticed the absence of color in this very room? They do not want you to think of drugs at the moment. Why, do you even remember arriving here?" He raised an eyebrow at Harry, who shook his head slowly. "Alas, you nearly left us that very night. Shame I was not around, although I doubt I could have been of any help . . . I would have enjoyed the show, however."

"But, I was— is Voldemort still dead?"

"Voldemort?" Dumbledore's eyebrows knitted together. "Oh, you mean Tom." He sighed. "No, no. Far worse, I am afraid, but I shall explain later."

"Wait, he's not— dead?" He was vaguely aware of his voice increasing in volume but found he did not care. "You mean I— He— all those people who died! And you should be dead too and— and— I saw both of you die, both of you!" His voice wavered and he fell back against the pillows. "And . . . I . . . there's no way— I've never even seen drugs in my life, so, how . . . ?"

Dumbledore huffed with impatience, "My dear boy, is it so hard to comprehend? You get high on crack, you sell crack, you have sex for crack, by all means, you may as well be crack at the rate you're going."

Harry still processed none of this, bewildered further more by the mentioning of illegal drugs— used by him, of all people— and of him having sex. "I had— who did I shag for drugs?"

Snape snorted, and Dumbledore went on with an air of casualness that made Harry uneasy, "Why, just about everyone on the school grounds— boy, girl, teacher, animal. In fact, I believe I once walked in on you shagging the daylights out of a suit of armor, but, alas, we all have our moments, be they awkward or desperate or very romantic."

Harry opened his mouth to say something but Dumbledore plowed on further. "I, certainly, was no innocent adolescent, as Severus can recall from that one meeting at Grimmauld Place back in November nearly three years ago." He winked at Snape, who scowled in return. "Well, to put it quite simply, I ended up in detention for three months for getting caught, inebriated, no less, but also caught in a precarious position with the Potion's professor's Ficus in his office." Dumbledore chuckled. "Do not look so shocked, Harry! It is normal for boys to, erm, for lack of better words— much less of a descriptive nature, Heaven forbid— experiment with inanimate objects.

Anyway, moving on . . . . You do not recall much of anything, do you?"

Harry began, his throat dry and voice hoarse, "Well, last I remember, I was dueling Voldemort and he used the killing curse, which didn't really work— "

Snape slapped him. Dumbledore and Harry looked at him in shock. "Severus, I do not think that was necessary." He turned back to Harry, and explained. "You see, Harry, Severus has mood-swings, having had his voice box cut out and nearly raped-to-death by Tom and his . . . snake," he noticed Harry's face, full of confusion, and then continued, "Well, anyway, he has some very nice medication for schizophrenia and . . . other problems." Snape was fixing them with a really nasty look at this point, and then gestured at Dumbledore to 'Just get on with it already'.

Dumbledore, at this point, was now smoking a cigarette filter, and did not seem to notice, nor, Harry suspected, did he care. "So, we can conclude that what you remember is something completely and so very far from the truth neither of us actually knows what the other is talking about." At this point, Dumbledore eyed the pathetic stub clutched between his shriveled fingers and threw the butt somewhere in a general-left-direction. "I would like you, Harry, to forget everything you know." He gestured vaguely at Snape, who stood up and straightened his jacket. Just as Snape made to puch the wheelchair-confined old-timer from the room, Dumbledore said very strenly, "Forget everything that you know becasue for the next month I will tell you everything that did happen while you were gone from this world, so to speak."

"What do you mean?"

Exasperated, Dumbledore said, smacking Snape's hands away from the wheelchair to fix his gaze on Harry, "Everything from your ninth birthday to now, you have imagined."

And with that, the heavy door shut with a resounding bang as the two vacated quickly, (because visiting hours were over), and Harry Potter fainted.