Mind Games

Lucius hated his name.

He really did.

No matter how many times he told them not to, no matter how many times he tortured them and killed them and cast various nasty curses on them, everyone called him "Lucy".

He wanted to know if he looked like a Lucy. He didn't think he did. He was tall, blond, imposing, and, most importantly, male. He was not a Lucy.

Nevertheless... Even Narcissa called him Lucy. His friends and enemies alike called him Lucy. It was unstoppable, this plague of Lucy-ness.

Sometimes Lucius just wanted to kill himself.

Other times, he wanted to put on a blue dress, grow his hair out, die it black, and tie it with a big blue ribbon. (He had seen a Peanuts cartoon somewhere during life, and this was how he pictured all Lucys.)

He was not a Lucy, he wasn't, he wasn't, he wasn't!

And so it was, with these thoughts playing through his head, Lucius "Lucy" Malfoy died.

The stepdaughter of the twice-removed cousin of someone he had once assisted in torturing in his apprentice days as a Death Eater (He had helped build the I Maiden, which never even got used because it creaked in such a distinctly ominous way that made people - even Death Eaters - nervous.) had poisoned his breakfast cereal in an asinine attempt to avenge her stepfather's twice-removed cousin, or perhaps just get her name in The Daily Prophet.

All was peaceful in the land of Snape. Well, sort of. Not all the way. Okay, not at all.

For the last two weeks, Miss Hermione Granger of (gasp!) Gryffindor had been acting as his unofficial assistant and pint-sized friend. Then, for reasons he could not comprehend, she had gone completely and utterly insane.

For one thing, she was missing questions when he called on her in class. For another, she had received a B-minus on the last quiz. Also, she did not respond when her classmates attempted to get her attention, and she was constantly staring into space. The most peculiar symptom, though, was that she often seemed to be tinted pink.

Now, Snape didn't really know much about females. Well, that is, he didn't know much more than a seventeen-year-old boy would. (Which, essentially, is their anatomy and what to do with it.) He didn't know how they normally acted, (beyond being annoying most of the time) or what being various shades of pink really meant. Of course, in most people it usually meant they were embarrassed, but Snape knew that, for one thing, teenage girls were not 'most people' and, for another, Miss Granger couldn't be embarrassed all the time. Could she?

Whatever the cause, the shade was darkening by the hour.

He had asked Madame Pomfrey about this, but her responses were, really, a lot of completely inane rubbish.

For example: "Ooooooooh! It's happening already, is it? Why, I did watch the soap opera-thingy with the rest of them, but I didn't think it would be quite this soon, did you? Dumbledore seems to have more foresight than a few days, don't you think? But, I suppose, it didn't show exactly what you're describing, but a ways down the road. So it was a more futuristic prediction, and this is merely the beginning."

Say what?!

After receiving similar answers from Sprout and What's-her-name, the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, he turned at last to McGonagall, who gave the most sensible reply yet:

"I have no idea what you're talking about. You must be imagining it. Go to bed, Severus, it's late. And don't bother me any more!"

Well, except for the last bit, he would take her advice.

"Malfoy," Voldemort roared, "quit being nefarious and get over here!"

Silence.

"MAL-FOY!!!!!"

Silence.

"Where is he?"

"Um, Lord? He isn't, I mean to say, isn't at the moment, that is, here right now, Lord Dark King Voldemort, Lord!"

"Shut up, Wormtail."

"Yes, Lord! I mean, mmmph, Lord!"

"Wormtail."

Wormtail stopped talking.

"Where is Lucius?"

Pettigrew battled frantically between not talking and replying. Finally, he chose to reply. "Dead, Lord Dark King Voldemort, LORD!"

"Will you stop it?!" Voldemort snapped. "I'm getting a bleeding migraine! It's either Dark Lord, Dark King, Lord Voldemort, or simply Lord. Not all at once, you imbecile."

"Sorry Lord Dark King Voldemort, LORD! I mean, Lord."

"Shut up."

"Yes, er, Lord."

"Now. Why is he dead?" Spider-like fingers tapped menacingly against the wooden arm of the throne.

"Err... Someone poisoned his breakfast cereal, LORD!"

"Stop shouting! Who?"

"We do not know, LO... That is, Lord."

"Get out of my sight! I don't ever want to hear your pitiful voice again! If you come within a ten-mile radius of me I will have you Aveda Kedavera'd on sight! And get someone to bring me that headache-removing potion, for Grendel's sake!"

"Yes, Lord!"

"And talk audibly, man!"

Peter Pettigrew slouched miserably out of the room, muttering as he went.

"It was so much easier, being good. Really, it was. Even my own Death Eater, 'Have a Rotten Day' T-shirt with a Mr. Smiley on isn't worth this kind of treatment. I should hire a lawyer and sue the Lord, I should. Employee abuse, that's what it is!"

Had Peter Pettigrew been a muggle, he would have been a.) an accountant, or b.) a tie-wearing, cubicle-lurking, lawsuit-happy, upper-middle-class family man.

"Hello, Potter."

The Boy Wonder in question looked up, blinking, and then proceeded to ignore Malfoy.

"Hello, Potter." This time around, Draco sounded a bit miffed.

"Hello."

Draco jumped up and down, waiving his hands mockingly. "Well, gee-golly-whiz, but you're talkative. Something wrong, Potter?"

"No."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes."

Malfoy rolled his eyes and his hands found their way back to his hips. "Are we just feeling monosyllabic today?"

"Yeah."

"And articulate, not to mention eloquent, charming, and in possession of a strong vocabulary."

"Uh-huh."

Draco's hand lifted from his hip and repositioned itself over his chest. "Oh! Be still my heart! Was it... yes, I believe it was. Two syllables, folks! TWO!"

"Shut up."

"And there he goes again! At this rate, we'll be up to four in no time! And full sentences in a matter of hours! Excellent progress, believe me."

"Sod off, Malfoy."

"There it is! He's jumped three and gone directly for four! This is absolutely amazing!"

At last, Potter stood up and glared steadily at Malfoy. "Look," he said, "I'm tired, okay? I'm tired of Harry and James, - living with yourself isn't easy, even for nice guys - I'm tired of being trapped inside myself, and I'm tired, most of all, of you!"

Draco unconsciously took a step back. "Whoa... Potter... calm down... I was just, you know, joking. I didn't mean anything."

"I know you didn't, Malfoy, and that's the problem. I mean, before we got trapped in here, you wouldn't be 'joking' with me, would you? Admit it: in an obscure and psychologically masochistic way, we've become friends."

Malfoy considered this for a bit, then nodded. "Yes, I suppose, in a psychologically masochistic way, we have. How... how remarkably odd. I'm friends with the great Harry Potter. I never thought I'd see the day... Huh." He gave a short, bitter laugh at this. "But, Potter, I hate to be cliché, but we'll have to cut this friendship thing off when we return. We can't be friends. Not with my father and your... and your... and your, well, youness."

Harry looked up from where he was amusing himself in some corner or other. "His 'youness'? Honestly, Malfoy..."

"You shut up," Potter commanded, and turned back to Draco. "Yeah, I know. But, for now, it's... okay. It's okay. You're an okay person. It's all okay."

"O... kay!" Malfoy mocked, and they both burst into uncontrollable fits of giggles.

"You're okay, I'm okay, we're all OKAY!" James screamed in a very odd accent, and slid down the banister backwards. Draco and Potter stared numbly at him, but Harry cracked up.

"Wait a bloody minute. How come you get it and I don't? You are me," Potter admonished his psyche-twin-person.

Harry shrugged. "The person I subconscioused for before you was a huge Rocky Horror Picture Show fan. You need to see that movie, sometime. Really, you do. You'd make a good Brad."

"?," said Potter.

"Never mind," James said firmly, and slid down the banister again.

Potter thumped his head on the table in time to his speaking. "I-thump-want-thump-to-thump-go-thump-HOME-thump."

Snape, in desperation, had given Hermione an anti-sidetracking, super-focus potion, and she was now supplying a lot of nonsensical rubbish.

"What if we channelled all of the Sphinx's energy into some sort of object and then taped it to Malfoy for the rest of his life and he could wear some sort of ID bracelet in case it fell off, something like 'Please replace weird icon to mobilise this git', you know? But then his enemies could take advantage of him. Not that that's a bad thing, because I'm his enemy, sort of. But that wouldn't get Harry back, would it?

"Or we could figure out what Harry's in denial about and shout it really loudly in his ear, right? That'd work, d'you think? Maybe... Can he hear us? But then, if he himself can't figure it out, and since you wouldn't be much help, hating Harry and all, and I have no idea what's wrong with him, and I'm not sure shouting would work, anyway, I don't think that'll do.

"But, we could always make him watch a bunch of really bad movies - it's a muggle thing, Snape, dear, you wouldn't understand - until he wakes up screaming. Or we could just forget the whole thing and I could go back to sulking because I'm a lovesick sixteen-year-old fool who crushes on all the wrong people."

Snape stared at her for a very long time.

Had she just called him dear?! Oh, dear. Pardon the... the... whatever the hell it was. Pun or double entendre or two-sided-thingy or something like that. His vocabulary was failing him. He hadn't been called dear (bloody DEAR! What the hell had been in that potion that he didn't know about?!) since he was three, and even then it had been sarcastic. His mother had never been a very loving soul. She preferred calling him 'Mini-greaseball,' or perhaps 'Koochie-koochie-kee, you annoy me!'

Had she just called him DEAR!?

Indeed, she had, and she appeared not to notice, because she was continuing with her completely indecipherable wave of nonsense.

"And there was this pony - Do wizards ride ponies? None of the books say. - and it was so pretty, you know. A bit shaggy, but very pretty. And I wanted it so badly, only we lived in the city, because there isn't much call for dentists off where one can have a pony, well, not unless you count the local guys, but Dad's far too honourable to put one of them out of business, he is. We were considering moving to America or something, but Mum loathes the accents - dunno myself, some are annoying, but some are just sort of, you know, there. Don't know why we were going to move to America, anyway, don't think there's anymore call for dentists there, anyway. No idea. Parents are weird, don't you think?"

Oh, he thought at last, I know what this is. She's so focused that by giving her the potion I made her unfocused. Reincarnate me as a squib, but I'm a fool... Why don't I ever read the damn subtext?

"And, then, you know..."

Snape had no choice but to let the chatter wash over him and prayed that the potion would wear off soon.

Meanwhile, in a completely different area of Hogwarts...

"Neville, you're a really nice guy, and I've know you for five years, and you're a good friend of my brothers, but... Well, you're a much better friend than boyfriend. At least for me. You will find a girl who is a lot more appreciative of you than me, I'm sure. And she'll make you a lot happier..." Ginny Weasley trailed off, distracted by her (ex)boyfriend's pathetic expression.

"Oh, come on Neville, don't look at me like that. You know it isn't working out. We don't have anything in common! I like music and dancing and reading, and if rather unpopular am at least moderately outgoing when not in the immediate vicinity of my current crush, and you're, well, you.

"You'd rather listen to Trevor croaking than Lorelei Ballad! You hate dancing, and, quite frankly, are horrible at it. You never read, unless forced to, and you don't speak until spoken to, and even then it's iffy! We're not compatible, Neville!"

At last, the older (if slightly shorter) boy was able to get a word in. Needless to say, it wasn't the most intelligent thing ever recorded in world history. "Lorel-what What? And I'm good at dancing! I've been taking lessons, I have! All summer long! Just for you, Gin!"

"And that's another thing," she continued mercilessly, "you're oblivious to your faults, you don't even make an effort to musically educate yourself, and my name is Virginia or Ginny, and Gin is an alcoholic drink which I do not like! And, furthermore, Lorelei Ballad is only the best musical artist in wizardring history! Honestly, Neville!"

"S'rry, Gin."

"Euuuuaaaaaaagh!" She said, and threw her arms up into the air. "I give up! It's hopeless! This relationship was doomed from the beginning! If only we had gone to see Trelawney - and I know she's a fraud, but she always seems to be right in regards to you - perhaps she would have told us that it wasn't going to work out before we even attempted it!"

"Gin... That is, Ginny, don't be mad."

The redhead sighed and flopped down in the cushy red-and-gold upholstered chair. "I'm not mad. Not at all. Why would I be mad? I'm just frustrated that I spent so much time in this damn relationship and it all turned out for nothing."

"Um," said Neville, "I understand that's - sort of - how most relationships go. People don't marry on the first date. At least, not most of the time. I think."

"I know," Ginny snapped, and flung a pillow at him, "but this is my first, so naturally I had this subconscious expectancy that it would last and you'd sweep me off my feet, and so on and so forth. Like one of those gushy romance novels that seemed to find their way into the girls' dormitories."

"S'rry, Ginny."

"Not your fault, Neville! Stop apologising!"

Neville decided that demure, blonde Hufflepuffs were much more his type. Ginny was just far too controlling.

"I once wore a pair of pink socks," said Potter.

The group stared at him. At last, Draco summoned the courage to ask, "Why?"

Potter shrugged. "They were Dudley's. That's my cousin, Malfoy... Oh, but you'd know that, wouldn't you? I keep forgetting you have my mind as well. Anyway, I was all out of socks, so Aunt Petunia gave me those pair of his. It was humiliating. I hate pink."

"And," said Malfoy, "you told us this... why?"

Potter shrugged. "I thought I might be in denial about it. You never know. By the way, Malfoy, you know everything about me... So what am I in denial about? And don't you dare say 'your idiocy,' or anything similar. Okay?"

"Okay," Draco agreed, "but I don't have a clue. I have an exact copy of your mind, which means that whatever you're in denial about, I'm in denial about as well."

"You know what? I might as well tell you, seeing as how you're trying so hard. You, or rather we, are not in denial about anything." Harry said, and sighed.

"WHAT?!" Potter screamed, looking as if he might have an apoplectic fit.

"You're not," James reassured him. "You're just suffering from shock from the cold and magical after-effects which were increased by Malfoy's Veela-thing. We just thought it would be fun if we fed you a lot of nonsense and watched what came out. But you're just depressing us now, so I thought we might as well tell you. Besides, if you were in denial about something so deeply that you couldn't come up with it when you were this desperate, then we wouldn't know it either."

"I," Potter menaced, "am going to kill you."

"Well, that would be effectively committing brain-suicide, because I am you. Or rather, I'm your subconscious."

"Look," Draco interjected at last, "just get us out of here before he tears you two to pieces. And I really think he will. I'm not to be held accountable for the actions of deranged Wonder Boys. Besides, my father's got a wonderful lawyer."

"Shut up," said Potter.

"Okay," said Malfoy, and shrugged.

"Anyway, we can't get you out. It's just a matter of waiting. Soon enough the magic will wear off and you two will wake up again. Simple as that. Nothing we can do to speed up or slow down the process, believe me, or we would've done so already. You two are beyond annoying."

"Oh, and look who's talking," Malfoy scoffed, and tossed his hair.

"So, we... wait."

Ginny clattered down the stairs, romance novel dangling from one hand. Katerina had just seduced Damien, and she wanted to get back to the juicy bits as soon as possible. However, moaning noises (in pain, not pleasure) were issuing from downstairs, and she figured that investigation was required.

"Hello... Oh, blast it! Ro-on!"

The brother in question was sprawled on the couch, one hand draped protectively around his stomach, the other clutching a New!Super-strong-version!Liquid Kedavra. He was moaning faintly every few seconds.

Ginny's mind zipped back to one of the children's books she'd seen once in a muggle library.

"If you give a Ron a whiskey... he's going to want another." She said firmly, and bent to fetch the Fast-acting!Improved!Hangover-B-Gone-Plus. "And," she continued, "if you give a Ron another, he's going to get a hangover. And if he gets a hangover, he's going to need his medicine. And if he takes his medicine..." and here she opened his mouth and let a few droplets drip down his tongue and into his throat, "... he's going to feel lots better." Ron sat up very quickly, at this, opened his mouth, and let the alcohol-filled steam pour out.

"God, Gin, I hate that stuff... And speaking of..."

"And if he feels lots better, he's going to notice his sister helping him. And if he notices his sister helping him, he's going to think of her name and ask for some alcohol."

"Well, yes, could you? And what the hell are you talking about?"

"And if he asks his sister for some alcohol, she's going to refuse."

"Damn! Ginny, come on, you're a nice sister..."

"And if she refuses him," Ginny said relentlessly, laughing inwardly at her brother, "he's going to start begging. And if he starts begging, she's going to refuse him again and take him to the Infirmary."

"Gi-in!"

"And if she takes him to the Infirmary, he's going to complain."

"Damn right!" Ron said vehemently.

"And if he complains, she's only going to put him in a full body-bind."

"Gin, you wouldn..."

"And if she puts him in a full body-bind, he won't annoy her anymore. Is that nice, or is that nice?"

The problem of the inebriated Ron was solved then and there, just like that. Where best friends and even professors fail, determined little sisters can succeed.

Plus, no one else was quite like Ginny.

"Ron! Ginny! Oh, I'm so happy to see you!" Hermione ran forward, kissed Ginny on the forehead, bent down to Ron's prostrate form and kissed him as well. "It's been ever so lonely, with only the walls for company. Walls aren't very talkative, you know."

"No-o," Ginny said carefully, backing up slightly, "they aren't. Why don't you sit down for a moment, Hermione?"

"Oh, but I can't, dear! There's so much to talk about! I haven't seen you in positively ages!"

"You saw me just two hours ago," the younger girl reassured her currently insane friend, "and we talked for a bit. Remember?"

"Oh," gushed Hermione, "but ever so much has happened since then! Sit down, I'll get the tea, and we can talk. Go on then, sit down."

Just then, the door swung open and in came Snape.

"Oo-ooh! Sevvie, dear, just in time!" Snape winced unconsciously at this new variation of his first name. "could you get the tea for us? Gin and I were just going to sit down for a little chit-chat, weren't we, Ginny, dear?"

"Uh," Ginny pronounced, and backed up until she was pressed against the door.

Snape looked amused at Ginny's position. "Yes, quite, Ms. Granger." He conjured up a full tea set and levitated it over to Hermione's cot.

"Oh, thank you so much, Sevvie dear!" She leaned forward on her tip-toes and kissed him on his rather long nose. He assumed a look of profound shock and stumbled out of the room, quite traumatised.

"Hermione... did you just... kiss Snape?" Ginny looked horrified.

"Well, you know, I do sort of, maybe, just a little, like him. Like him, like him, that is, of course, but him being a teacher and all I would never make a move. But he just looked so cute like that, don't you know? I just had to kiss him. Besides, a nose-kiss is completely... oh, what's the word? Platter, Platypus - goodness, no - ah! Platonic. Completely platonic, it is."

"Hermione? Are you... are you alright?"

"Oh, very much so. Never felt better!"

It was Ginny's experience that, when someone said that they 'never felt better,' it usually meant that they were in immediate danger of dying, or of going completely insane. Given the situation, she concluded that it must be the latter. After all, all that stress over Harry and exams and such... Why, it was like Blast-ended Skrewts to a person's mind. And Hermione was never very stable to begin with, after all.

Anyway, why else would Hermione have her very own cot in the hospital wing? Clearly, they were already filling out the forms for her transferral to St. Mungo's.

Ginny politely excused herself.

"Hannah?"

The blonde Hufflepuff turned around sharply at the sound of her name. She clutched her books to her generous chest and looked modestly down at the ground, unable to meet the eyes of the bewildered boy standing opposite her.

"Hannah?"

"Y-yes? C-can I h-help you with s-s-something?" I hate my stutter... Now he thinks I'm an idiot, she thought miserably.

"No... Well, yes, sort of. I was sort of wondering if you... if you might want to go out? On Saturday? Or any day, if you're busy then. Of course, I'll completely understand if you don't want to..." Neville trailed off, blushing mightily, and looked at his feet.

"Oh-oh-oh my M-m-m..." Unable to finish, she simply stared at him. Neville squirmed. At last, she managed to get out, "I thought you were going out with the Weasley girl?" Stupid! Now he'll think you don't want to go out with him! Stupid, stupid, STUPID!

"No, no, she, uh, broke up with me."

"Oh."

Silence for a bit, then...

"So... do you?" Neville raised his eyes slightly to meet with hers. (Well, not really. She was still staring at her shoes.)

"Do I what? Oh! Oh, yes, of course! I'd love to!" Smooth, be smooth. Act like you've done this dozens of times before...

"Great!" he said, his eyes lighting up. "Is seven okay? On Saturday? We'll go to the Three Broomsticks?"

"Th-that's fine. Really fine. Thank you, Neville." Don't sound snobby, you great twit! "I can't wait!" But don't sound like you're five, for Circe's sake! Great Gobstones!

"Thank you... I'll see you then, H-hanna."

He stutters too!

Snape opened the door to the main room of the hospital wing a crack and peeked in. It seemed to be relatively safe now. While still insane, Miss Granger appeared to have regained her ability of speech.

"I'm quite sure it's 'dominatrices,' Ron, rather than 'dominatrixes'. I mean, if you must talk about such things, at least say them correctly!" she said hotly, crossing her arms.

On the other hand... Perhaps he should just leave them alone.

"Oh, look, Hermione! It doesn't matter anyway, because I don't think any guy would want two at once! Besides, do you have to do your grammar-thing every time? It's getting so that Me and Harry... Harry and I, rather... are actually developing vocabularies! And, believe me, that's a very dangerous thing for boys of our age to have! Seriously!" Ron appealed. He was laying back on his own cot, attempting to construct a paper aeroplane out of Ultra-Sanitary! Magically-absorbent! Paper towels.

"Really, Ron! You are so ignorant! Anyway, there's no accounting for some people's... taste... in such things. I'm sure there's some guy out there with more than one, and he probably doesn't even know the proper way to refer to them!"

"Y'know, Hermione, you're almost more entertaining when you're partly insane, like this. But you're probably right, about that, at least. Anyway, this is a sort of weird conversation."

"Right," she affirmed, "but what do you think about the shade of these curtains? Positively awful! Why, if I was Madam Pomfrey, I'd absolutely die! How could you stand to be around this... this... this puce... all the time? It's just horrid. I think it's a crime. The curtains in our bathroom at home are so much better, and considering the state of them, that's saying something indeed."

Snape shook his head and ducked out. He would be so glad when the potion wore off and the Granger girl got off of that ridiculous teenager-thing she was on. He loathed teenagers. Well, except some of the Slytherins, but only because they weren't quite such teenagers as the rest of them.

"Hey," said Malfoy, who was stretched out across a couch, "what's that?"

"What's what? Be more specific. Honestly." Harry scolded, intent on his game of Go Fish.

"The poster with the cylindrical object half-filled with red and numbered. What is it?"

Potter, this time, was the one to look up. "That's a picture of a thermometer, Malfoy. It tells the temperature. But what's a poster of one doing there?"

"Oh," said a disinterested James, "it tells how close you are to waking up. When it hits the top, you're up and running again."

Potter blinked. "Really? Seriously? Wow. Um... any way to speed it up?"

"Oh," Harry sneered, "of course there is... we've just been keeping it from you two idiots all this time. Run around the building naked, screaming at the top of your lungs."

Potter rolled his eyes. "Gryffindors may be gullible, but we're not that gullible. Honestly. I am not going to embarrass myself further."

"Damn," said James, "got any sevens?"

"Go Fish."

Malfoy looked up, then, mildly intrigued. "What are you two idiots doing?"

"I," Harry said loftily, "am not an idiot. The same can't be said for this loser, though. And it's a muggle card game called Go Fish. Want to play? We'll teach you."

Potter looked up, this time, and shrugged. "I'm in. Nothing better to do. Join us, Malfoy?"

Draco squirmed a bit, then decided 'Why not?' and plopped down between Potter and James.

"Okay. It's like this. There are fifty-two cards, which are made up of aces, twos, threes, fours, and so on up to ten. Then there's jacks, queens, and kings..."

"Oh! Professor Snape!" Ginny had mostly given up her habit of squeaking, but this was most certainly a squeak-worthy occasion. After all, there was a gigantic, blood-thirsty bat lurking around the halls, just waiting to take points from hapless Gryffindors.

"Miss Weasley. Out a bit late, aren't we? Perhaps a bit of late night pranking? Dearie me. Dearie me." He looked down his (in Ginny's rather biased opinion) absolutely colossal nose at her, scowling mightily. She trembled.

"Er, no, Professor Snape. Just coming back from the infirmary, visiting Hermione and my brother and all. Ron headed back a bit ago, and Hermione will soon. She's all better, now, you know. You can go check if you don't believe me, sir." Provide an alibi, that was rule-number-one when dealing with Slytherins in charge.

"Oh? Is she? How... nice. Hurry on to your dorm, little girl." And, while that last bit sounded decidedly villain-like, she was quite shocked that he hadn't even bothered into deducting points. Usually, he would never pass up such a choice opportunity.

And so, without any further hesitation, Ginny bolted up three flights of stairs, across five corridors, through the portrait hole, and into bed, pausing only to inform Seamus Finnigan that Snape was 'acting quite odd'.

Seamus passed it onto Ron, who, after a long career as sidekick to the notorious Harry Potter and Slytherin-bashing, immediately assumed that someone had polyjuiced their least favourite potions professor. It was then spread across the dorm and, in the morning, the school, that Snape was not Snape, but an impostor working for some secret organisation. They also concluded that, because the change had been favourable, this organisation had nothing to do with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Thus, by lunch the next day, Impostor-Snape was seducing young Hufflepuffs, robbing them of blood (he used his partly-vampire ancestry to do this), wiping memories of said Hufflepuffs, and analysing the blood samples for research the United States government was doing.

It's amazing the things rumours will say, isn't it?

Their friendly game of Go Fish had progressed into Strip-and-Fish, and Malfoy was, to put it mildly, beating them like the dogs they were. This meant that, even though this was their first game, and early at that, Harry was missing his shoes, socks, jacket, and shirt, James was missing his socks and shirt, and Potter lacked all but his boxers. Malfoy, however, was fully clothed.

"Tens?" Potter queried desperately, staring at his positively enormous hand. Surely Malfoy had to have at least one card matching his own?

"Strip-and-Fish, Potter! Hah," Draco crowed, punching the air with the hand not holding his cards.

"Bloody hell, He doesn't have anything left to take off, unless you count the underwear, and we're not playing for stakes that high, are we?" Harry asked worriedly.

"Oh yes, we are. Take 'em off, Potter."

"I will do no such thing! You can't make me! I refuse to be subjected to such indignities. I quit! Hey, what are you doing. Malfoy, you wouldn't dare..."

But dare Malfoy did. "Accio!"

Potter bellowed like an enraged bull, and charged at Malfoy, who took off to the door of the Library-with-a-capital-'L'. "GET BACK HERE WITH MY BLOODY SHORTS, DRACO MALFOY!"

"NO!" came the reply. The blonde boy was quite fast. They were nearly half-way around the building already.

"YES! I WANT MY SHORTS! GIVE THEM TO ME! IT'S NOT BLOODY FUNNY!"

"YES IT BLOODY-WELL IS, MY 'BLOODY-ING' NEMISIS! HAH!"

The circuit was completed, and both abruptly vanished into thin air, leaving the boxer shorts lying forlornly on the ground.

Harry and James, who were leaning against the outside wall of the Library-with-a-capital-'L', stared at the garment with a kind of bewildered amazement.

"Well," said Harry, at last, "I told him so."

"But you weren't serious! You were just trying to humiliate him," James protested.

"True, true, but you should know that Irony-with-a-capital-'I' is the reigning deity in here."

James considered this a bit, then nodded. "I suppose. But it does make the system awfully messy. Though, you have to admit, it was entertaining."

"Yes, indeed."

When Harry awoke, there was much confusion. The first words out of his mouth were, "I WANT MY UNDERWEAR, MALFOY!" which, quite understandably, nearly caused Madame Pomfrey to faint on the spot.

Hermione bolted awake from where she had fallen asleep and stared at her best friend, who was sitting bolt-upright, eyes wide. She recovered her senses, ignored the aforementioned exclamation, and launched herself at him. "Harry," she squealed. Though Hermione was not prone to squealing, she couldn't help herself when she realised that the Wizardring World's favourite brunette was, indeed, awake. Besides, the last remnants of Snape's potion were clinging to her system. "Oh, Harry! You're awake!"

"He is indeed. As am I. And I'm hungry as hell. Granger! I want butterbeer and something gooey," Malfoy commanded from his own cot.

Hermione, shocking everyone in the room (and the poor nurse all over again), told Malfoy to do something anatomically impossible and quite rude.

"Shut up, Malfoy. You're in for a pounding when I get out of here. Hello, Hermione. Sorry for keeping you up so late, Madame Pomfrey. How long have we been out?"

Hermione relinquished her grip on Harry's chest briefly, and stood upright. "Nearly two months. It's March the eleventh."

"March?!" said Harry.

"Gryffindors," said Draco, "Honestly! Stop with the dramatics, already! We've been asleep for two months, established. Granger is very glad to see you, established. Madame Pomfrey is about to have an epileptic fit, established."

"Madame Pomfrey!" Hermione and Harry chorused at once, and launched themselves at her, very helpfully supporting her all the way to a nearby empty cot. After this was accomplished, both noticed that Harry was standing on his own and that his long slumber seemed to have no physical effects they could see.

Malfoy watched them silently with much eye-rolling, but when the Boy-Who-Lived stood still and looked himself over, Malfoy couldn't resist adding a comment of his own: "My, my. It seems that your state of undress has crossed the dimensional barriers. Fancy that."

Both Gryffindors' eyes travelled downwards, and both blushed deeply, before Harry grabbed a nearby sheet. Why can't the stupid hospital gowns be long enough, he thought wretchedly, why did I have to get a bloody growth spurt?

"Stay here, get dressed, and such," Hermione commanded, "I've got to go tell Ron! And Snape," she added as an afterthought.

"Snape?" Harry called incredulously to her retreating back, but received no answer.

Despite her son being comatose and her husband dead, Narcissa Malfoy was not overly distressed.

"The way I see it," she later confided to one of her house elves, "you can look at it one of two ways. You can see that the whole world is out to get you, or you can shrug and say, 'Hey, this isn't so bad, loads of people have it worse.' I always chose the latter. Besides, everything always works out in the end. For years I had to deal with a husband pledged to the most evil man in all history. Then he dies an absolutely ridiculous death and leaves me filthy rich. Also, for years, I had to deal with the prospect of an evil son. Then Draco decides he's going to rebel and grow his hair out and such and it's all fine. You see? It does all work out in the end. Besides, now I've got that lovely professor from Draco's school after my hand. A girl can hardly complain, can she?"

The house elf, a shy young creature by the name of Wobbly, merely nodded.

Any way, back to the present.

Narcissa was, at this moment, lounging in her hammock in one of her many gardens, having two house elves by the names of Slightly and Tipsy apply 'rejuvenating facial cream' that had been advertised as youth-giving. She hardly believed this, but it smelled nice and she had nothing better to do with her money.

Just then, a third house elf dashed in with a letter clutched in its fist. "An Owl, came, miss! From Young Master Draco's potion professor! I is delivering it to you now!"

"Why, thank you," she paused here, unable to recount this particular house elf's name, "lowly servant. Give it here."

It obeyed her command and scurried out again.

"'Well,'" laughed Narcissa, "Well! I'm taking it fabulously! Ha! Die, evil Dark-Lord-serving megalomaniac! Though, you must admit, it is a bit of a shame. It's rare you find anyone with such perfect hair in this world. Alas."

"Oh, really? Huh. Well, that's pretty nice. Maybe he learned something while he was asleep, hmm, Tipsy? We can only hope." The elf in question made an agreeable noise.

"Hah! Yes, that's my little Draco. Give 'em hell! Especially that Madame Pomfrey, if she's still around. Oh, but I used to hate her when I was a girl."

"Yes, that's Severus all right. Hasn't changed. You know, I shouldn't have dumped him all those years ago... He was nicer than Lucy. On the other hand, he was also poorer. On the bright side, I can go off and seduce him and such now, and keep all the money. Plus, my children won't have greasy hair. Is there a downside?" She considered this for a bit, then finally decided there was a small one. "Well, actually, had Draco been his child I doubt he would have been so scrawny-looking, but that's how life goes. Ah, well. I suppose he'll just have to go through life occasionally being mistaken for a girl."

Slightly made an approving noise.

"Yes, I think I shall seduce Severus, Slightly. After all, the poor man needs something to keep him entertained, with only those potions for company nowadays."

Narcissa drifted to her feet, charmed the facial cream away, and floated to her study. There were evil plots to hatch and greasy, bitter professors to seduce, after all.