Warnings: Mpreg. Please do NOT read if this is not your cup of tea along with your slice of bread in the morning.

Chapter One

A Knock at the Door

It was all Oliver Wood's fault.

More precisely it was the magazine's fault. It – or rather the person in the picture on the cover of the magazine had been the impetus for the events that had left him in his current quandary, after all.

For many weeks now Harry had successfully avoided looking at shiny surfaces, but this morning, as he was getting dressed, he had mistakenly caught a glimpse of his nude body reflected in a mirror – full-length to ensure additional torment – and he was forced to confront – as it were – the naked truth.

He had been petulant all day as a result, snapping at anyone who got in his way until Mrs. Weasley had banished him upstairs to the bedroom he shared with Ron.

Once there, reconciled to further torturing himself, he'd slipped a well-thumbed magazine from its hiding place underneath the mattress and spent several minutes alternating between glaring at the reclining figure smirking up lasciviously at him from the magazine's glossy cover and wiping wretched tears off his face.

Yes, the trouble had started with Oliver Wood, and reckoning that it wasn't rational to cast blame on a lifeless object, Harry was determined to put the blame entirely where it belonged: at the doorstep of his overenthusiastic, former team captain.

"Come with us, Harry," the current Puddlemere United keeper had said, cajolingly. "It'll only be a few drinks with the lads. Besides, you look like you need some cheering up." Oliver had batted his pretty, blue eyes at Harry and pouted his bottom lip for good measure.

Harry, pushover that he was, had acquiesced. He'd go to the pub, have a few laughs with Oliver's Quidditch mates, indulge in a pint or two, and then take his leave, going home for some well deserved rest.

Little had he known, Harry thought bitterly, that the Red Lion was no ordinary pub. Rather, it was a near den of iniquity – thick with smoke of questionable origins, free-flowing alcohol, and people doing all manner of perverse things in darkened corners – and he, innocent lamb that he was, had been led, like one of the cuddly, little creatures, to slaughter.

He'd tried to leave, of course. Pleading all manner of excuses, but Oliver had batted his eyes again, and melting, he'd given in.

One drink had led to two, two to three, and before he'd realized it, he was knocking back a continuous flow of drinks that Oliver and his friends kept pressing into his hands.

The night from that point on melted into a miasma of drunken moments; dancing on a tabletop, (he might have lost his shirt by this time) and other fleeting moments of being pressed up against a wall by a hard body, writhing against his. Unfortunately, his recollections ended, here.

What he did remember, with painful clarity, was waking up the next morning in a strange bed with an unfamiliar body – attached to a horrifyingly familiar face – sticky and sore all over.

His face burning with acute embarrassment, Harry had slipped stealthily from the bed, careful not to disturb his bed partner and high-tailed it back to the Burrow, later congratulating himself on a narrow escape.

Of course, he was Harry Potter, bad karma dogged his every footstep, and for him there was no such thing as a narrow escape.

A sudden knock at the door startled him from his grim musings. "Yeah?"

The door swung slowly inward followed by Ron sticking his head cautiously into the room. "Is it safe to come in?"

Harry's face took on a sheepish expression. "Yeah. Sorry about before," he muttered, contritely.

"No worries, mate," Ron said, shrugging off his apology. He dropped down, heavily, onto the narrow bed opposite Harry's. "You've been having a rough go of it, lately. I'm only surprised you hadn't blown your top, earlier."

Harry looked up, surprised by his friend's uncommon frankness.

Ron caught the look. "What? I know I've been accused of having the emotional range of a teaspoon, but I notice things," he said, a tad defensively.

Harry smiled, ruefully. "Like when your best friend decides to take a brief trip 'round the bend?"

"Well…yeah."

Harry laughed, albeit, a bit tearfully.

Ron leaned forward, concernedly. "Harry, all joking aside. Are you all right?"

Harry brushed underneath his eyes with a furtive swipe of his hand and nodded. "Yeah, Ron. I'm all right," he said, trying to smile, convincingly.

Ron looked doubtful. "You can tell me, you know. Whatever it is."

Harry nodded. "I know. Thanks, Ron," he said, not yet ready to reveal the reason for his state of emotional turmoil.

Ron seemed to recognize this and sat up, unable to hold back the look of relief that crossed his face; anything beyond hearty backslapping and manly hugs put him out of his emotional depths and he'd never seen his friend so teary-eyed. Eager to change the mood, he opened his mouth, the words, "fancy a game of chess?" on the tip of his tongue, when his gaze happened to fall upon the magazine resting, forgotten, on Harry's lap. "What's this?" he asked, instead, leaning over to get a better look.

"What?" Harry asked, distractedly, and then noticed where Ron was looking. "Nothing!" he cried, frantically slapping his hands down to hide the magazine. But it was too late. Ron had already got a hold of it.

Ron waved his prize triumphantly, dodging Harry's lunging attempts to reclaim it. He laughed, and said teasingly, "What is it? A perv mag? Nothing to be ashamed of, Harry."

"Ron…" Harry said, quiet desperation in his voice.

Still, laughing, Ron took no notice, too busy making fun of his friend. "Let's see…" he said, suggestively. "Naughty pictures of witches doing naughty things, eh?" His voice trailed off and the laughter stopped, abruptly, when he got a good look at the front cover.

His heart beating with a sense of impending doom, Harry watched as Ron raised his head and slowly focused his attention on him. "Ron," he tried, again. "Please, listen."

"Harry…" Ron said, slowly. "Please tell me this is not Draco bloody Malfoy on the cover of PlayWitch…"

"Ron…"

"And that he's not the reason you've been moping about the place for weeks on end."

Harry's bottom lip started to tremble. "Ron…"

"Harry," Ron grounded out. His voice brooked no argument.

Harry's face crumpled, and hot tears began sliding down his face. "Ron," he said, tremulously. "I've done something stupid. Really stupid." He bent forward at the waist and covered his face with his hands as if to hide from Ron's accusatory stare.

"More stupid than mooning after pictures of that poncey git, Malfoy?" asked Ron, disbelievingly. "In a magazine filled with naked blokes?"

Harry looked up, his face red and streaked with tears. "Ron…please," he whispered, brokenly. Each word out of Ron's voice had penetrated him like a knife wound.

Ron's heart gave a twinge but he hardened it against Harry's tears. Here he'd thought something was really wrong with his best friend, and all along…Ron couldn't even complete the thought, and disgusted, he threw the magazine down on the floor.

A sudden knock on the open door startled them and the boys looked up to see Mrs. Weasley's plump figure standing just outside the doorway. She entered the room, a strange expression on her face. She seemed not to notice the tense charge that filled the room or Harry's teary sniffles.

Ron came to his feet. "What is it, Mum?" he asked, concerned.

"What…oh, Ron," she said, sending her son a bemused smile. "There's…someone here to see you, Harry."

"Who?"

"Draco Malfoy."

There is a picture of the PlayWitch magazine on my livejournal, which can be found in my profile.

Thanks for the lovely reviews. I was surprised to get so many for just the prologue.

See prologue for disclaimer